The Other Brother
by 60r3d0m
Summary: When John Watson wakes up this morning, he doesn't expect to meet the third Holmes brother that Mycroft pretended to execute years ago. He doesn't expect this said brother to appear and become infatuated with the pathologist at Bart's. And he certainly doesn't expect to see Sherlock Holmes act like a jealous hormone-driven teenager. Too bad he gets all three with Moriarty to boot.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

**A/N: Takes place after His Last Vow. **

* * *

When John Watson wakes up this morning, he doesn't expect to meet the third Holmes brother that Mycroft pretended to execute years ago. He doesn't expect this said brother to appear and become infatuated with the pathologist at Bart's. And he certainly doesn't expect to see Sherlock Holmes act like a jealous hormone-driven teenager. Too bad he gets all three with Moriarty to boot.

* * *

John Watson makes his way into 221B early in the morning, a headache already brewing and the thought, _dear God, please forgive me when I stab that bloody git in his goddamned heart_. That and the little guilty twinge he gets when he realizes that his inevitable row with Sherlock Holmes is going to wake up the poor landlady.

So he's a little taken aback when he walks in to hear loud voices in the flat upstairs, and Mrs. Hudson awake and gnawing her bottom lip with worry as she rushes forward. "Oh, John, dear! Did you get my text?"

John Watson stops and stares at her. "What text, Mrs. Hudson? The only text that I got was from Sherlock." _And what a bloody text it was_, John thinks as his hands curl into fists once more.

_John, I think I'm going to die -SH_

Of course, John had run out of his house like a madman, not even leaving a moment to spare his heavily pregnant wife an explanation. These words had echoed in his head. They were a repetition of _that_ day. These same words had been the ones that Sherlock Holmes had uttered to Molly Hooper as he had been told by the pathologist upon the consulting detective's return, and if there was one thing that John Watson was sure of, it was that he wasn't about to let his best friend carry a new burden alone.

So his anger is logical when he comes to see the consulting detective's brooding shadow in the window of the flat. Unharmed. Undying. Undead.

"Oh, I sent it from Sherlock's phone. He left it lying on the table when he came in to help me change the light bulb."

_Sherlock helped change the light bulb? Sherlock got off his bloody arse and actually did something?_ is John's first shocked reaction. Then, a large, frustrated sigh escapes the doctor and he mutters, "Mrs. Hudson, can you please just refrain from sending texts about...dying...from Sherlock's phone? Just please don't. I don't need...I don't need another repeat of that day."

"Oh, dear! I wasn't thinking. It's just that all their shouting this morning has been driving me up the wall. Oh, John, I'm so sorry, and the news that I have to tell you...oh, I don't know if I should tell you, dear. Oh, it's going to break you. It sort of reminds me of the time that my late husband and I had a terrible row that day after my exotic dancing classes. He was a horribly jealous man, my husband, but once the money started rolling in...A bit like our Sherlock here. Sherlock does get so jealous when people choose others over him. I think especially over that poor Molly**—**"

"Please, Mrs. Hudson, can you just tell me what's wrong? It's just, I left Mary at home, and she's, well, we're expecting the baby soon. Any minute in fact."

"Oh, of course, dear!" Mrs. Hudson bites her lip again and looks at him with pity. Softly, she whispers, "I'm sorry, John, but he moved on. He brought a man home with him this morning. They're having a bit of a domestic."

John Watson stares at the landlady. Stares and stares and_ stares_.

"A man, did you say?"

"Yes, dear, but now don't you go off into the fight. You're married now. You had your chance, John, but you were too scared. You could have been like Mrs. Turner's married ones next door, you know."

"For the last time, Mrs. Hudson, I AM _NOT_ GAY! Not gay, alright?" John explodes and with a huff, he storms up the stairs, because even though he isn't gay, he still enjoys the thrill of the chase, and it will definitely not make him happy if his best friend's found a replacement blogger. As he reaches the top steps, he hears Sherlock's agitated voice.

"I thought that you said that he was dead, Mycroft! That car crash..."

"What did you expect, Sherlock? He is, after all, one of our own. Do recall that I sent you away to die as well, and also recall, brother dear, that within moments, I had arranged the fake return of a James Moriarty to save you from your death sentence. Do you honestly think that I wouldn't do the same for him? Be logical. A Holmes can never die from a car crash. It's..._undignified._"

John hears the sneer in Sherlock's voice as he shoots back, "And we thought obesity was undignified, too, Mycroft, but you proved the entire family wrong. What was it? An excess two hundred and twenty one pounds? You made the 'B' in 'big' have a new definition."

"Shut up!"

"Point is, Mycroft, I don't understand why he has to stay here. You have a million safe houses. Set him up in one of those. Set him up in a hotel! It'll hardly be a drain on your resources."

"The safe houses are for those under _threat_, brother, and he is hardly...as it is, ever since Mummy discovered that he was alive...I haven't heard the end of it. Imagine if she discovers that I had him in government quarters. She knows my job and undoubtedly, she would perform a certain..._association_ with the place and the treatment of her kin. When she does arrive in London, think of how relieved she will be learning that he has been living in the Baker Street residence all along. Now that John Watson has moved on, you have no excuse."

"I didn't live in Baker Street a quarter of a decade ago. You have a house, too, Mycroft," Sherlock spits.

"Details that can be easily forgotten by our mother. And absolutely not! I will not have him..._canoodling_ with Anthea. He's always been a womanizer. All three of my girlfriends in my teenage years left me for him! He is the reason that I am an unmarried man!"

"And the one boyfriend of yours, Mycroft. Don't forget the boyfriend."

"It was an experimental stage of my life! The fact is that he has ruined everyone of my romantic relationships! I gave up sentiment!"

"Ah. Feeling lonely, are you, Mycroft? I hadn't realized that your secretary had been moved into your home. Found a _goldfish_, have you?"

"Nonsense! I simply must insist that my personal secretary is not distracted when there are matters of national importance at hand. Anthea is prone to taking off in pursuit of pretty faces. And after the Irene Adler situation..."

"Personal secretary? How personal, Mycroft?" Sherlock breathed.

"Oh...do shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! He's staying here and this is final!"

"_HE KILLED REDBEARD_!"

"Nonsense. He didn't kill the dog. While it is true that his actions may have..._inadvertently_ led to the putting to sleep of the dog...well, let us forget the past, shall we?"

"Ah, and then maybe, Mycroft, you should forget the future grudge that you may have when I advertently kill your goldfish."

John finally decides to make his presence known just in time to catch the consulting detective throw a smirk at his brother.

"Ah, John, perfect timing. A body's just arrived at Bart's."

"I didn't come for a case. Mrs. Hudson..."

He finds himself trailing off because it's true, what the landlady said. Sherlock Holmes has a man passed out on his couch. A tall man, impeccably dressed, with dark hair cut short that seems to be wearing the consulting detective's _dressing gown_.

"Who is this?" John can't help but demand, because he feels agitated now, and he doesn't care if Mrs. Hudson shows up and thinks that he's jealous. No. John is incensed with fury because _why did that bloody, goddamned git never tell him, his _best friend_, that he was gay_?

Sherlock Holmes obviously must deduce what the doctor is thinking because he sighs and waves his hand distractedly. "No, John. This isn't what you think. He has my dressing gown because he's a fool who has always wanted to irritate all those around him. This is...our elder brother."

And John's jaw drops because suddenly, yes, he can see it. The family resemblance. Tall and handsome (_not that John Watson is gay, of course...he just notices beauty_) like Sherlock. Hair a slight lighter brown like Mycroft Holmes.

"My _younger_ brother," Mycroft corrects. "Sherlock's the youngest."

So John does what he wants to, and punches _that good-for-nothing tosser of a consulting detective in the face because dear God, how dare he not tell his best friend that he had another bloody brother_?

* * *

To John Watson's amusement and to Sherlock Holmes' dismay, 221B Baker Street becomes host to a new resident. A new resident who, unlike the other two Holmes brothers, seems to be utterly normal.

"He's pretending, John. Don't trust him. He'll claw his way into your heart and snatch everything that's yours. He is currently in the process of stealing my best friend," Sherlock hisses in his left ear as they make their way to Bart's morgue. The brother has decided to tag along and John has resigned himself to this wretched fate so he texts Mary and she tells him that she'll assassinate him if she pops while he's not there.

"Don't listen to him," the brother mutters in John Watson's right ear, yawning and rubbing his eyes tiredly. "He's always been prone to rubbish. I left the family when I was seven. Didn't grow up to be an oddity like them."

"Yes, and spent the next twenty-five years in military confinement. I daresay John, that you should wonder _why_," Sherlock mutters, and slams open the two doors to the morgue dramatically.

"Morning, Sherlock," Molly Hooper greets, not bothering to look up because _no one wants to keep up with this dolt any longer_, John thinks.

"_Molly_," Sherlock says, and John's eyebrows shoot up with shock because he hasn't been in the presence of these two since their slapping game and _why in god's name is bloody Sherlock Holmes' voice so deep all of a sudden and why does that bloody git sound so bloody erotic all of a sudden_?

Molly Hooper seems unaffected, however (_is that even possible_?), and still doesn't spare the detective a glance. _Still angry after a month, it would seem. God, the prat deserves it_.

"Who's that?"

John turns his head to see the other Holmes brother looking at Molly intently, eyes flicking back to Sherlock and her. There is a gleam in his eyes and suddenly, John does wonder why a seven year old child would be put into military confinement for a quarter of a century. "Er..." John starts and then manages, "she's the pathologist here. At Bart's."

"Hm," the brother hums, and _a-that's-definitely-not-a-normal-smirk_ crosses his features briefly before the brother assumes an innocent and shy look. John sighs in frustration. _Yeah, what was I hoping for? He's a Holmes brother, alright, and a dodgy little shit at that_.

"And this would be the body, I presume," Sherlock says (_why does this git's voice sound so breathless_?), nodding to the corpse laid flat under the harsh light. The consulting detective moves to stand beside Molly, who says nothing and takes a step away from him. John realizes that it is because Sherlock Holmes is standing far too close to the pathologist, which is saying something because _when has the dick ever shown a regard for personal space_?

So it hits John and almost causes him to fall over with the force of his next realization because if he's right, and he might just be, could it be that _Sherlock Holmes, Mr. I-Don't-Do-Sentiment, has fallen in love with Molly Hooper, Ms. I-Won't-Take-Your-Shit-Anymore-Sherlock_? It's so hilarious that John has to suppress a laugh.

_Well, bugger_.

Evidently, John's laugh is a _little bit not suppressed_ because Molly looks up, opens her mouth to greet John Watson, but instead freezes and bursts into a glorious blush and mess of stutters when the third Holmes steps forward, expressing a nervousness that he definitely didn't possess a _bloody_ five minutes ago. He mumbles, "Hi."

When Sherlock hears his brother talk, his head shoots up, and his body is stiff (_and is he angry? Oh, God, he's gone barmy...with love_?). John Watson watches with incredulity as the consulting detective places a (_rather bloody possessive_) hand on Molly's arm (_as, John reasons, sodding Sherlock Holmes goes blind with jealousy_).

John Watson feels as if the world is spinning (_and it is_, he reminds himself, _even if the git of a detective doesn't know that_).

"Oh, um, I," Molly says, smiling and blushing, and her voice sounds like it hasn't in a long time, not since Sherlock Holmes ruled her world. "Who...who are you? It's just...sorry, hospital rules and..."

"Precisely," Sherlock says, and the brother is out of Bart's before Molly can speak another word.

Well, that's what John Watson imagines will happen, so he's surprised when Sherlock Holmes doesn't say a word, just looks tense and angry. His hand stays on Molly's shoulder but his lips stay shut, pressed into a thin line with a wary expression (_and bloody hell, is that fear_?) in his eyes, and it is then that John sees that maybe the brazen detective may have grown up to be bullied by two very mean, elder brothers.

"Oh, sorry," the brother says, earnestly (_what a bloody fake lot, the Holmes family_, John thinks) extending a hand, "I'm Sherlock's brother. A tad older. Roytriam Reginald Walter Christopher Sheridan Holmes, but uh, just call me Roy." He smiles a bit wider, showing off some rather spectacular teeth. "Um, my mum really loved the mathematical and mechanical capabilities of rhodium and ytterium, the, ah, elements of the periodic table. Thought she'd combine the lot and name me into what felt like a bundle of joy." He pauses, his expression saddening in just the slightest, and John sees a bit of Sherlock in there, giving the _I-Am-A-Cute-Puppy-Who-Was-Kicked-So-Please-Let-Me-Take-Everything-I-Want_ look to Molly, who leans in with that same _goddamned eagerness_ to help as ever. Roy then breaks into a shaky laugh, as if he is a recovering, tortured soul, _the bloody liar_. "The others would tease me at school. Call me Rhodium Ytterium Holmium."

"Molly Hooper," the pathologist replies and tries to shake Roytriam's hand, only to notice that _bloody, brilliant, boffin Holmes_ has her arm in a tight grip. John thinks his own face flushes from second-hand embarrassment.

"Um, Sherlock," Molly says, timid now that she has seen the other brother, "your hand...do you need something?"

"What do you need," Sherlock says, but his words come out in a growl. He's staring at Roy, and John doesn't think he's ever seen him look so hateful before.

Molly giggles. "You could start by taking your hand off my arm, Sherlock."

"No." Sherlock says, but he sounds distracted, as if he is half in his Mind Palace and half in the real world. "What do you need. That's your line."

There's something in Molly's expression that changes, John notices, and in that moment, she has eyes only for her consulting detective again. Her voice is soft when she asks, "What do you need, Sherlock?"

And of course, he whisks her away into some room to demand laboratory equipment, but when Molly Hooper returns, it is alone, and she's crying and when John takes Roy to 221B, it is to discover that Sherlock Holmes is high on drugs, because he pins his elder brother to the wall and snarls, "Stay away from her," before he's gone, slamming the door of his bedroom closed.

John Watson stands rooted to his feet**.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_There's something in Molly's expression that changes, John notices, and in that moment, she has eyes only for her consulting detective again. Her voice is soft when she asks, "What do you need, Sherlock?"_

_And of course, he whisks her away into some room to demand laboratory equipment, but when Molly Hooper returns, it is alone, and she's crying and when John takes Roy to 221B, it is to discover that Sherlock Holmes is high on drugs, because he pins his elder brother to the wall and snarls, "Stay away from her," before he's gone, slamming the door of his bedroom closed._

_John Watson stands rooted to his feet._

* * *

"Nope," John says, shaking his head. "Lying isn't going to cut it. Molly Hooper didn't cry because she broke a microscope. Do you think I'm stupid, Sherlock? Hang on. Oh, god. Don't answer that. I know. You think I am. Well, you bloody arse, I'm not stupid when it comes to this. Molly deserves a lot more credit that you give her. She's not going to go crying for a bloody goddamned microscope. Hell, she didn't even cry when she found out she was dating the_ consulting criminal_. So god save me, Sherlock. Tell me what you did so I can make it up to her, because I know you bloody well won't."

Sherlock Holmes turns over onto his stomach and shuts his eyes. He pulls a pillow over his head and whines, "Leave me alone, John!"

"To hell, I will! Tell me what you did to her, Sherlock. You were jealous of your brother. Don't deny it. God, I don't know why I bother with you. You were flirting with her again, weren't you? Just so that your brother couldn't have her. You're such a bloody git. God. Here I was thinking that maybe you fancied Molly, but no, of course not. You were trying to ruin your brother's life because he moved into Baker Street and because you saw that your brother might like her. So tell me why you needed to destroy poor Molly Hooper's love life again."

"Fine. I may have implied that the probability of her cat dying at my hands would reach a hundred percent should she ever glance in the direction of my brother's horrid face ever again and that her sole duty and reason for existence is to cater to my every whim. _Oh_, don't look so aghast, John. It was the drugs talking. The drugs that you didn't notice that I was taking for quite a few months, may I remind you. Don't look so startled. It's not your fault that you're daft, John. You were born that way."

John shakes his head again. "No. Stop it. You're lying, Sherlock. Molly's heard your rubbish enough times to tolerate that, even if you threaten her poor cat. Now...let me ask one more time before I box your bloody ears. _What. On. Bloody. Earth. Did. You. Do. To. Molly. Hooper_?"

Of course, the _dolt _doesn't respond.

Sometimes, John Watson likes to tackle a problem head first, and sometimes, he likes to go nice and slow, but _blimey_, when it comes to _sodding dick-headed Mr. Sherlock Holmes_, he doesn't ever know where to start.

"Eight months, Sherlock. Eight, bloody months!" John huffs. "You never stopped taking those drugs. You promised that they were for the Magnussen case! You said that you were done. But no, you, you...bloody arse...you _fucking_ git...you..._argh_!"

So when the doctor is overcome with fury at the consulting detective who is sprawled on his bed with his face hidden underneath the pillow (_likely from guilt and shame_, John would like to think), Sherlock Holmes doesn't even make a sound when his blogger punches the _good-for-nothing bastard_ in the head (_too bad it's shielded with a pillow_).

After a few well-thrown punches, John Watson calms down enough to sigh with exasperation. "And here I was, thinking that your touchy-feely behaviour with Molly Hooper was the manifestation of some crush...god, Sherlock, what were you even seeing when were you in that morgue? Irene Adler? Is that what you were hallucinating Molly as? You tested positive for _psychedelic mushrooms_, Sherlock. You _were_ hallucinating. No, no. Don't even _say_ that you weren't. Was that why...or what, a nightmare? Did you yell at Molly later because you thought she was an enemy? Did you suddenly see Moriarty in that room?"

At the sound of the consulting criminal's name, John sees Sherlock's fists curl tightly into balls, and for a moment, the doctor wonders if he might receive a little present back from the detective (_in the form of a bloody punch_), but then instead, to his utter amazement, he sees his best friend's body begin to shake...from _sobs_. He's _crying_.

"Sherlock," John says softly, now concerned. He tries his best to assume his doctor persona. Dealing with drug abusers in the throes of their emotional highs and lows has never been his strong suit. Dealing with man-child Holmes when he's not crying is even harder. So now that Sherlock Holmes _is_ crying, John Watson is at a loss, because the last time was the rooftop (_he could hear the tears over the phone_), and John really just doesn't want to go _there_ again. "Sherlock, are you alright? Do you need to talk about something?"

"Let me talk to him," says a guilty-ridden voice. "I feel that this is partly my fault."

John looks up to see Roy Holmes, looking concerned. For a moment, John is won over, because the elder brother looks pale with worry. He forgets that this Holmes brother is just as a capable of acting human as Sherlock and Mycroft are (_and Sherlock and Mycroft can sometimes be really bloody good actors_), but the memory of the artificial shy persona that he easily adopted at the morgue with the pathologist floods back into the doctor's memory, and it is with unease that he nods his acquiescence. He leaves the room, keeping the door slightly ajar so that he can see, and pauses to eavesdrop (_because really, John Watson doesn't trust Roy Holmes one bloody, sodding bit_).

"Took a little trip, did you, little brother?"

John Watson's eyebrows shoot up at the gloating tone that fills the third Holmes brother's voice. _Yeah. Definitely a Holmes_.

Roy sits back in the armchair that Sherlock has in his room, a smug expression on his face, as he continues, "What drug was it this time, little brother? Heroin? _Molly_? They wouldn't tell me. Mycroft was afraid that I'd..._tease_ you about. Quite frankly, he was right, of course, but both of us know that teasing quite isn't the proper word for it, is it, little brother?"

"What do you want from me this time?" Sherlock says through gritted teeth. His voice is muffled from the pillow, but there is anger and fear mixed together, and again, John wonders why Roy Holmes was in prison for twenty-five years.

The elder brother leans forward and mocks, "I only want for you to recover. Mycroft and I are heartbroken at your need for substance abuse." Roy Holmes suddenly grins, and John notices that it's _the_ grin. The grin that Sherlock gets when he meets a witty serial killer. "You know, little brother. She's quite pretty, the girl at the morgue. Too bad that you told me to stay away from her. Is she your girlfriend?"

"Shut up."

"Ah, not your girlfriend then. Well, then I see no reason to heed your warning. I like Molly Hooper. I think I'll ask her to have dinner with me."

"You wouldn't dare," Sherlock hisses and he finally lifts his head from under the pillow. His eyes are red.

"Why? Dinner is so innocent. Or...ah, does dinner have another meaning for you? Mycroft filled me in about all of your little adventures. Irene Adler asked about dinner, too, didn't she? Not dinner-dinner, of course. Ah, well. I'll still have dinner then. That type of dinner with Molly Hooper would sate my hunger very well," Roy says, smirking (_while licking his goddamned lips suggestively!_), and ruffles his younger brother's hair.

John rolls his eyes. _These bloody brothers and their drama_.

* * *

The next time John Watson sees his friend, it is in Bart's morgue, once again with Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes and his elder brother. It has been one month.

It's not his fault that he hasn't spoken to his friend since. John Watson is now a father, and since Sherlock Holmes refuses to stop taking drugs, the consulting detective was not present for his goddaughter's birth. John makes a mental note to contact Mycroft. Someone needs to stop Sherlock and his drug habit before it kills him.

_Well, this is a little bit not good_, John thinks, as he watches the three before his eyes. Sherlock has not seen Molly since the day that he made her cry (_well, at least this is what John thinks because he's pretty goddamned sure that Sherlock's been spending more time at drug dens with his protégé Wiggins than any bloody place else, the arse!)._ What John didn't want, but expected, was the fact that Roy Holmes would find the _need_ to tag along, to do _some bloody not-girlfriend-stealing, the dolt of an elder brother_. Why Sherlock failed to stop escapes John but he's pretty sure that it has to do with the fact that Sherlock acts like a little bullied kid around his elder brother whenever he's not too high to comprehend his _stupid, bloody actions_.

"He's clean now," John lies to Molly, although he's not really sure why he's lying. Maybe it's because Sherlock can comprehend his actions today...he's high, but not that high...John hates this ridiculous logic. "He was high that day that he...you...er...gods, would you like to see a photo of my daughter?" He steers the conversation away because Molly's expression is looking _a bit not good_, too.

So he shows her and then sits down and watches the scene before him, because it's time to see which arse hurts Molly Hooper first. He's not really wondering, though, because Roy Holmes is pretending to be a nice person, and Sherlock Holmes never pretends so, well, it's going to be Sherlock.

Of course he's _fucking, sodding, bloody right, the bloody, goddamned git_.

To John's amazement, Molly Hooper has been avoiding staring at Roy Holmes, which leaves him to wonder if Sherlock might not have been lying about the _death-of-her-cat_ comment. This is confirmed when the elder brother greets her, and when she finally does look up, she trembles, as if scared, and looks nervously from Sherlock to Roy Holmes, flitting back and forth like a cornered animal. _The Holmes brothers sure are some nasty predators_.

"Do you remember me?" Roy asks, smiling winningly. _God_, it resembles Sherlock's own fake behaviour so closely that John is surprised that Molly doesn't notice (_and run_).

Molly wrings her hands, and seems to be deciding on whether she is brave enough to reply. John Watson narrows his eyes. This is _bloody ridiculous_, he thinks, and then, as in afterthought, he adds, _I'm going to flay this dolt of a consulting detective when we get home_.

"Um..." she begins, but that is as far as she gets, because at that moment, Sherlock strides forward with a menacing expression on his face (_bloody murderous_, John Watson would say, if you asked him) until he is hovering inches behind her. He doesn't say anything, the _bloody git_, but even the doctor can see the pathologist shiver as _blimey! Sherlock Holmes, the immature idiot, _breathes_ on her exposed neck (and once again, rather...erotically at that, if John doesn't say so himself. Why is bloody Sherlock Holmes so sexed up when he's around the pathologist these days? Maybe it's because he's high...)_

Roy Holmes is frowning with displeasure, very similar to Mycroft's _ridiculously pompous ways_.

He tries again, prompting, "I'm Roy Holmes? Sherlock's elder brother? Rhodium Ytterium Holmium?" He smiles at her eagerly, hoping for a giggle from her. He gets none, and John Watson, _holy shit_, swears he sees Roy's jaw clench and his left eyebrow _twitch_ as he tries to hide his annoyance. The _womanizer's wiles_ aren't working so well this time around, it would seem.

Molly Hooper seems to be caving under the combined pressure of these two _dolts_, and turns to face Sherlock to leave, only to discover that he's ensnared her in the space between the table and himself, as he places his hands on either side of the autopsy bench, creating a cage with his _bloody, inconceivably long arms, the prat_.

"Molly," he says, voice deep but dangerously so. He's not smiling. In fact, he looks like he's about to eat her up. John rubs his hands over his eyes. _Oh, God. He's cock-blocking, the imbecile_. It's almost too embarrassing to watch, but John now wonders if Sherlock might not only be _pretending_ to fancy Molly Hooper. Maybe he actually _does_. And of course, the _arse will go through the most unconventional courting methods, the silly, jealous bastard_. John rubs his hands over his eyes again. _He's acting as if Molly is already his, the possessive wanker_.

"Sherlock," Molly says, voice nothing but a whimper. The doctor is surprised. After the last time she slapped Sherlock silly, he expects her to be furious with the consulting detective's drug habits' return, but instead, she's cowering. And then it clicks. Whatever Sherlock Holmes said to make her cry has been enough to keep her frightened for a _bloody month_. John squares his jaw. _When we get home, he's going to get it_, he thinks.

"Molly," Sherlock repeats, and leans in to whisper something. John doesn't miss the way that the _git breathes heavily on her ear, as if his breath is caressing little kisses on the side of her head_, and when he pulls back to stare at the pathologist in front of him, it's almost as if he's _fucking her with his eyes, dear god_. _Where the hell has this new, strange and enigmatic sexuality arisen from within Sherlock Holmes_? John is so preoccupied with this that he doesn't hear what Sherlock has said to Molly Hooper, and it seems that Roy Holmes hasn't heard either because he's still standing there glaring daggers at his younger brother.

Molly, however, seems to be close to tears again.

_What in bloody hell did he say to her now?_

"Go on," Sherlock says, impassive, and nods his head to the _same bloody door that leads to the same bloody room where the same bloody arse made her cry last time_. The consulting detective lets his arms drop from the table, freeing the pathologist at last, and Molly scurries into the room, but not before John sees a few tears drop from her eyes.

_What in bloody hell is going on?_ John is utterly bewildered.

When the door closes behind Molly, Sherlock glances down at the corpse on the autopsy bench (_the real, bloody reason that they're here in the morgue_!) and shoots off, "Thirty year old woman. Quite fond of cats, judging from the atrocious amount of feline hair fibres lodged in her hair. Avid follower of beauty blogs but a horrible taste in men; she was a victim of domestic abuse. Boyfriend was rather controlling and she was only allowed to dye her hair her natural chestnut brown colour to hide grey hairs. Clearly, he must have seen her associate briefly with another man, likely a random co-worker but probably his brother, who went missing a week earlier, and drew insufficient and completely illogical conclusions before he decided to murder her. Signs of suffocation indicate that this was her cause for death, but we know that that's not true. She was drowned, much like the five other bodies that arrived here within the past month. Her boyfriend was experienced. A serial killer then. He's finally made a mistake. Murdering his girlfriend."

There is a lingering silence after Sherlock finishes, and then Roy Holmes says rather delicately, "Sounds like someone I know."

Sherlock doesn't answer. Instead, he walks quickly to the room that Molly Hooper is in, only briefly turning around to say, "Excuse me, John. It's best if you go home. The case is closed, and I have a matter to attend to." He opens the door and John thinks that he hears sobbing but then he can't hear anymore because all the electronics in the morgue go haywire, including the _goddamned saw_ that the pathologist uses to open up skulls.

The doctor's phone is buzzing wildly in his pocket and Sherlock is frowning, pulling out his own mobile which is emitting strange shrieks (_what kind of bloody ringtone is that? First that bloody Irene Adler tone and now this_!) Roy Holmes is trying to silence his own "_How Deep Is Your Love_" ringtone, the _womanizing arse_, but is staring at it puzzled when it won't shut down. John cringes when his phone stops vibrating and instead plays the embarrassing ringtone that Mary has chosen for his phone. Madonna. "_Like A Virgin_."

"Mary chose..." he starts, but then gives up, because _why in bloody hell should he even bother explaining his actions to two Holmes brothers_? Somewhere in the background, he thinks he hears violin music (_Wait, didn't Sherlock compose that_?) before he realizes that it's Molly's phone. _Bugger_.

A minute passes in this strange delirium of sound and then everything goes quiet, a now strangely eerie silence settling over the place as every electronic is completely shut down.

And then the hush fades as whispers seem to flood the place as the electronics are stirred again.

_"Did you miss me?" _

_"Did you miss me?" _

_"Did you miss me?"_

John swears. _Not again. Not bloody again. Please_.

Because even John Watson doesn't need Sherlock Holmes' brain to realize that this round of "_Did you miss me?"s_ isn't from Mycroft Holmes._ No_.

_Sodding_ Jim Moriarty has returned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_And then the hush fades as whispers seem to flood the place as the electronics are stirred again._

"Did you miss me?"

"Did you miss me?"

"Did you miss me?"

_John swears. Not again. _Not bloody again_. Please._

_Because even John Watson doesn't need Sherlock Holmes' brain to realize that this round of _"Did you miss me?"s_ isn't from Mycroft Holmes. _No_._

Sodding_ Jim Moriarty has returned._

* * *

_Bart's. Morgue. Now_. —SH

_You want me to wring your neck that badly?_ —JW

_Bart's. Morgue. Now...please._ —SH

_What on bloody earth have you bodged up this time, Sherlock?_ —JW

_Nothing._ —SH

_And I call bollocks. You've had another bloody cock-up, haven't you? I swear, if I see Molly Hooper cry one more time, I'm going to off you myself, you bloody prat_. —JW

_Don't talk about Molly_. _Keep your eyes off of my pathologist or I will tear you to shreds_. —SH

_Don't be a bloody arse, Sherlock_. —JW

_You're testing my patience, John. Get over here. Now_. —SH

_Five minutes ago, you wanted me at Baker Street! I'm here now. Cabs don't come cheap, you dolt_. —JW

_Walk_. —SH

_Walk fast_. —SH

_Oh, faster than that, John_. —SH

_Sod off, you twat_. —JW

When Sherlock doesn't reply, a disgruntled John Watson makes his way out of the sitting room and down the stairs. Now that Jim Moriarty has returned, the doctor has been spending more and more time with the consulting detective and less and less time with his family. Under any other circumstances, John would ignore his best friend's demands, but he worries. Worries what Jim Moriarty can now do with the leverage of Mary Morstan and his daughter. It has been silent so far. The criminal has stayed quiet since his grand entrance, one week since it happened, but John knows that the long wait only shows a more sinister nature.

He is just out the door when Mrs. Hudson stops him. _Bloody brilliant_. Now he has to listen to her nonsense (_not that the landlady is boring but she simply has too many random stories, mostly about her hip, and John is not in the mood to listen_).

"Oh, John, dear. Have you been up there all this time? I didn't even hear you come in!"

"Er, sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but there was an urgent issue that came up. With Sherlock."

"Oh, no, don't worry about it, dear. Oh, my hip, it's just been so terrible lately. And he does make us run all around for him so much, doesn't he, our Sherlock? All day, John, I'm fetching him coffee and tea while his polite brother is being such dear and helping me around the kitchen. Oh, what a temper Sherlock's had lately, what with the drugs that he's taking. He told me to stop speaking with his brother! If I say even a word to the man, Sherlock will come over and steal all of my herbal soothers! Oh, John, it's just leaving me in tears, the situation. My hip's just hurting so, and I don't have any choice, John. I just had to stop talking but the poor Roy, dear, he looks so very lonely. And then in the night, one or two in the morning, Sherlock comes into my bedroom and steals my phone, John, talking to that sweet Molly Hooper for hours on end, ordering her about with all sorts of strange instructions, telling her what she can and can't do. A bit like my husband actually, except I never listened to him. Pursued my dreams and took my exotic dancing classes. Oh, but Sherlock...he's a little bit possessive, isn't he, our Sherlock? Just last night, he was telling the poor girl that if he ever saw her near his brother again, he would—"

"Look, Mrs. Hudson," John Watson says, distracted, "Sherlock needs me right now. Emergency. So, I'll see you later, alright?"

And before she can speak another word (although John stopped listening after the words _'my hip'_), he hastily runs out the door, because really, what could Mrs. Hudson say that could be of any importance?

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, the _bloody git_, is in a foul mood, and John Watson, willing to bet all his money and his wife and even his _daughter_, is positive that it is because he is high on drugs. _Very_ bloody high.

So high that when John glances at Molly's _trainers_, he finds himself pinned to the wall with Sherlock's curled fist inches away from his face (_god, I looked at her shoes, you arse, not her bloody breasts! They're the same kind as my infant daughters, so can you blame me for bloody looking?_). The only reason that John's face is saved is because Roy Holmes chooses that _bloody moment to become a sodding Casanova_, using the opportunity to once again implore the pathologist if she remembers him? _Roy? Roytriam Holmes? And of course, can't bloody resist spouting off more nonsense because does she bloody recall Rhodium Ytterium Holmium and Bob's your uncle?, the bloody git_.

Okay. Maybe John Watson is feeling a _little bit not good_ either. Maybe a little angry, too. It would seem that the _prat of a consulting detective's_ mood seems to rub off on everyone.

"You need to learn how to control that anger of yours, little brother. Fury is unbecoming of Mummy's little angel," Roy says, when Sherlock pins his elder brother to the wall next, but of course the _dolt_ is too high to be even scared of his elder brother, so it is only through John's efforts that he manages to keep Roy's pretty face (_god, more bloody cheekbones!_) from being bashed into the wall.

The peace doesn't last long because when Sherlock decides to disappear, of course, not having learned his lesson, Roy Holmes sweeps over to Molly Hooper, a predator after his prey.

"Hi," Roy says, grinning. He moves his head slightly (_to catch the best light on his bloody cheekbones, John realizes, the bloody womanizer_), watching Molly intently, but to John's surprise, she doesn't even look at him. Stares fixated on her papers, lips trembling, and _bloody hell_, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. John thinks he's had it. He doesn't know why Molly Hooper comes to work with her eyes red everyday and he doesn't know what terrifies her, but he's pretty _goddamned sure that it's the fault of_ _a certain, possessive, overly jealous, attention-seeking man-child, the bloody sod (and John thinks that today is the day that he's going to destroy bloody Sherlock Holmes and all of his codswallop_).

Of course the _idiot_ chooses that moment to appear, and comes in with his eyes flashing with obsessive rage, once again to take it out on poor Molly (_after attempting to throttle the womanizing Roy Holmes, of course_).

Minutes later, Sherlock's dragged (_oh, god, she's shaking with fear_) Molly over by the wrist to where his favourite microscope is and wraps his _bloody arms around her waist, _holy shit_, his groin pressed firmly against her bottom while he whispers god knows what into her ear again_. This time, however, John is able to get over the erotic Holmes act (_he can't help but dub it that, and he's suspicious that maybe Sherlock is doing this overly sexual bullshit in order to distract John from whatever he's hiding. John can't help but admit that he may have fallen for it_). The doctor huffs at this thought, determined now to get closer to the _bloody git_ and poor Molly Hooper because he _sure as hell_ is going to listen to whatever the_ dick's _breathing hotly into her ear.

John can see it. Any minute now, the scared pathologist is about to burst into tears. As the doctor tries to discreetly move over to the pair in order to hear what is being said, Sherlock sits down and pulls Molly into his _fucking, bloody_ _lap_, once again lingering his lips suggestively over her ears (_concentrate, John, he has to remind himself_), whispering, whispering, whispering.

And then John Watson hears it. He finally hears what the _bloody git_ is telling Molly, and what he does say makes John grab a chair for support because he can't believe his _bloody_ ears.

"Beg for mercy," Sherlock breathes into her ear.

Molly Hooper goes hysterical, clutching at the lapels of the consulting detective's coat, whimpering, "_Please_, Sherlock. I-I'm sorry. I didn't...n-not once, _please_. Believe me. He...he came to me. I-I did what you asked. _Please_ don't. It-it hurts. _Please_."

"Not good enough," he says, and he's boiling again with rage. He grabs her and pulls her up by the wrist, and this time, his voice isn't a whisper anymore.

"_Into the room!_" he orders, and once again, Molly disappears again, sobbing, and John Watson and even bloody Roy Holmes stare stunned.

John doesn't think he knows who this man is anymore.

* * *

John Watson doesn't know why he feels sick to his stomach every time he thinks about his best friend, and a certain pathologist in a certain room, but he does, and eventually he finds himself asking a question that he didn't think would ever pertain to Sherlock Holmes in any way, shape, or form.

Is Sherlock Holmes abusing Molly Hooper?

It doesn't even make sense, really. He doesn't even know what to call it. Molly isn't Sherlock's wife. She's not his girlfriend. She's a pathologist. A pathologist, maybe, that John thought the consulting detective admired. A pathologist with whom, until these past few weeks, Sherlock has not had an sexual or physical relationship in any way, but now, what with seeing that _git_ pressing himself again Molly, John really doesn't know what to do or what to think.

So he finally brings up the courage to go see him after a week (_after the dolt has sent John two hundred and twenty one incoherent texts—is he pissed?_) and heads to the morgue.

The _bloody git_, John thinks, and swears when he finds Sherlock Holmes, the _great mighty arse consulting detective_, slumped unconscious on a desk. He is very clearly drugged out of his mind, and when he wakes up (_which is going to happen when John Watson kicks his bloody arse in a moment_), it is highly likely that he won't even remember sending the doctor a load of texts demanding John's presence.

"Sherlock!"

The _dolt_ in question jerks awake, and rubs his hands over his eyes, lips parting, ready to whine.

"Don't, Sherlock," John says. "I don't want to bloody hear it. I came here to discuss something important so get off your arse."

"Molly," he mumbles, blinking rapidly as he takes in his surroundings. His pupils are dilated. He looks completely dazed and there is a _bloody tremor_ going through his body.

"God, Sherlock, have you been here all night? You're unshaven, your clothes are wrinkled. Look, you've even got your shirt untucked. _Jesus_, were you even lucid when you sent me your bloody texts?"

"Shut up, John!" he snarls, and even John is taken aback at the sudden release of anger. He seems to be even more drugged than last time, and the last time was when he sent the poor pathologist into the room again. He watches as the _sodding git_ stands up and makes his way to the little office that Molly works in. _Oh, god_, he's gone off to yell at her, the _bloody git_. John lets out a few colourful curses under his breath before he follows the _arse_ (_because he sure as hell isn't letting him reduce her to tears again_). Sherlock stumbles and falls to the floor before he even makes it to the door.

"Fuck."

John's eyebrows shoot up to the edges of his forehead. He's never heard the _bloody git_ curse in his entire life (_'Cursing is undignified, John,' the consulting detective used to say_. _He must be really unhinged, the prat_). So the doctor takes this cue from the _git's_ behaviour and readies his fist in case the _dolt_ does anything untoward to poor Molly Hooper.

To John's surprise, it is Billy Wiggins, the _bloody arse's protégé_, who meets them in the doorway of Molly's office. He gives a toothy grin (_he really ought to get his tooth decay looked at_), and with a rather proud air, announces, "Don't worry, Mistah 'Olmes. I looked over yer Mouse real proper. Didn't let none see 'er, not even the doctor who came 'round askin' for 'er. She's still outta it, Mistah 'Olmes, from the little somethin' you gave 'er. I gave 'er the second dose just like yeh told me. 'Twas kinda 'ard, Mistah 'Olmes. Your missus is a real fiery one. She fought me 'ard but Wiggins managed it. Gave 'er the second dose before she could run out. She was yellin' bloody murder, Mistah 'Olmes. Ain't that a thing, Mistah 'Olmes, with 'er bein' yer lover and all, I thought she woulda complied easy."

It takes John Watson exactly two point two-one seconds to comprehend what Wiggins has said (_minus the part about 'missus' and 'lover' because John really can't take all of it in—there's simply too much_) before he's got the _bloody arse_, who's just managed to get up, on the floor again, and he's pounding him with his fists before he even knows what he's doing, because _bloody hell, the sodding imbecile, the bloody ultimate arse of all arses, twat of twats, Sherlock bloody Holmes, biggest bloody prat in the U.K., has drugged (bloody drugged!) Molly Hooper_.

"You fucking git!" John's hollering, loud enough for the entire hospital to hear. "What in bloody hell were you thinking, you great, big, fucking, bloody dolt?"

It takes a while for Wiggins to pull John off of Sherlock, but when he does, John is too tired of pummelling the _idiot_ that he relents, heaving on the floor of the morgue while the _prat of a protégé_ holds him down. The consulting detective, meanwhile, retrieves the poor, (_too tortured, _John thinks) pathologist (_and for some bloody reason that John can't think of, she's wearing the dolt's coat_), carries her, draped over his shoulders. Sherlock murmurs something unintelligible, and brushes away a loose strand of hair from the woman's face before, _holy shit_, he kisses her forehead with tender affection. John briefly wonders if he's been imagining all of this potential abuse but then, Sherlock's bellowing voice cuts through his head, and he remembers the last time he was in the morgue.

"What in bloody hell are you doing, Sherlock?" John demands and maybe he speaks too loudly because Molly stirs.

"Sher..." she says through heavy, drugged lips. "Sherlock..."

The _bloody git_ in question, however, pays no heed to John's questions and orders Wiggins to hold the doctor down (_John resists mightily but fails_) before he lays down the pathologist on a counter and, _dear god_, picks up a syringe, and injects some clear substance into her arm. Once again, she slumps against his chest, as still as before. John thinks he wants to cry (_because he's pretty bloody sure that his best friend has lost his fucking marbles_).

It turns out that John Watson is right, because Sherlock Holmes falls unconscious moments later, and after John manages to break away from the _not-so-very-bright-but-good-with-deductions protégé_, the consulting detective is rushed away on a _bloody stretcher_ as they analyze all of the _bloody drugs that the git has taken_.

When Sherlock Holmes wakes up, he doesn't remember a thing.

It's his bad luck, because it also happens that Jim Moriarty decides to strike that very day**.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

**A/N: John appears to make a decision that is morally questionable in this chapter. As many readers were shocked by this and considered this as very out of character, I urge you to read the next chapter after this, because the events around Molly and Sherlock are about to clear, and John's actions will be explained in detail.**

* * *

_It turns out that John Watson is right, because Sherlock Holmes falls unconscious moments later, and after John manages to break away from the _not-so-very-bright-but-good-with-deductions protégé_, the consulting detective is rushed away on a _bloody stretcher as they analyze all of the bloody drugs that the git has taken_._

_When Sherlock Holmes wakes up, he doesn't remember a thing._

_It's his bad luck, because it also happens that Jim Moriarty decides to strike that very day._

* * *

"So you don't have any clue as to why you drugged Molly Hooper?" John says, in disbelief, as he tries to confirm what he's just heard. Sherlock turns away, steadfastly avoiding his blogger's gaze, while he lies down in his hospital bed like a guilty child. John shifts in the chair by the consulting detective's bedside and tries to keep his voice from wavering as he tries to convey the seriousness of the situation. "Do you realize, Sherlock, how worried I am for Molly? Because if there is any indication that you should be taking from this, it's that despite the fact that my best friend was potentially lying on his _deathbed_ yesterday, I'm not talking about you today, I'm talking about her. Not _you_. _Her_. Sherlock, please. Please just tell me that what I'm thinking right now is wrong, because honestly, I don't know what to think anymore. I don't know _why_ you're taking drugs, Sherlock. I don't know _why_ you won't _stop_. But I have to wonder. I have to wonder, Sherlock, why I'm finding it hard to look my best friend in the face because I don't know who I'm seeing anymore."

John pauses, and the consulting detective looks stiff at the mention of John's apparent _friendly feelings_ towards Bart's pathologist. John makes a frustrated sound in his throat when he sees that Sherlock's _bloody hands are curling into fists_.

"At home. I know that you're going to ask, and don't worry, she's safe from all prying male eyes. You know, she bloody won't even make eye contact with me anymore? A month and a half ago, she could have called me her best friend, but you...thank god, you only gave her anaesthesia, but why...o_h, god_, just tell me _why_."

Of course, the _bloody git_ doesn't answer, so John gives him one look, plaintive with disappointment, pushes through the curtains that make up the little room and leaves, only to bump into _sodding Mycroft Holmes_.

"John," Mycroft greets, but today, his smile is even less pleasant than usual. "I assume that he is awake?"

The doctor can't find himself to speak so he nods and walks away, because _dear god_, he doesn't know how he's going to get through this.

"So he still doesn't remember anything?" Lestrade asks, strolling towards him. "Blimey, John, you sure about this? Sherlock and Molly, I don't know. We all know he's been acting a bit odd around her lately, but abuse? That's...that's a serious accusation."

The two men stare at each other, and John sighs. "What about the flat, Greg? Can he get charged with drug possession?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "Searched the whole of it. I think Anderson found even more nooks and crannies this time around, but nothing. Not a single speck of dust. Wherever he's hiding it, it's a good spot. Definitely not in the flat itself." The detective inspector sighs. "Well, I'd better be off. Technically speaking, I shouldn't even be here. Not my division. Not a part of any division, frankly, although I've always felt we need one specifically for Sherlock. Anyways, Sally's waiting, so..."

The two men nod their good-byes, and John finds himself pacing the space outside Sherlock's room. It has been oddly quiet, as if Mycroft and his brother are doing nothing but having a staring contest. _The bloody git's probably receiving Mycroft's look of death right now_. Maybe John is just too hopeful for peace, because it seems he's definitely not getting any, so he groans when he sees _bloody, womanizing Roy Holmes_ making his way over with a _bloody, smug grin_. John pretends to be busy engaging the _wall_ in conversation because _no way in bloody hell does he want to talk to any Holmes brother right now_.

"Talkin' to the wall's a bit funny, don't yeh reckon, Mistah Watson?"

John huffs, because of course if Roy Holmes doesn't ruin his day, it will be the _bloody protégé_, Wiggins, who's been lumbering around dutifully outside Sherlock's hospital room, as if guarding the _goddamned sod_.

"Look, Billy, I'm a little busy right now, so if you could just please...just some space, please."

"Alright, Mistah Watson," Wiggins says, scratching his head. "Yeh know, I dunno why 'e did it. Mistah 'Olmes, I mean. Just told me to give it to 'er. Said 'Is Woman was tired, is all. Needin' some sleep 'cause she was dreamin' of Mori...Mori...yeh know, that man. The Irish bloke. But bit strange, ain't it? I reckon it's part of the plan..."

But John is flustered (_because he sure as hell can't deal with this if it's what he thinks he's heard_) and blurts, "Did you say _The_ Woman, Wiggins? Irene Adler?"

"Nah. That's _The_ Woman. I said '_Is_ Woman.' See, there's a difference. 'Is Girl? 'Is Mouse? 'Is Patho...Pathogen? Yeh know, 'is Molly 'Ooper, 'cept we don't call 'er that in the network. So we 'ave the codenames." Wiggins scratches his head again, a little more furiously, and John backs away (_because he's half afraid of catching something like the plague and also because he's thinking_), because _bloody hell_, even the _Homeless Network_ knows how _bloody possessive_ Sherlock is. _His_ Woman. _His_ Girl. _His_ Mouse. _His_ Pathologist.

_His_ Molly Hooper.

And then the doctor realizes something doesn't quite click, because John knows that these codenames must have existed for years (_John had the luck of learning four years back that his bloody codename in the network was Assistant, Short-Man-of-Convenience, and Phone-Retriever, the bloody prat!_), and Sherlock's possessiveness has only emerged recently, so what in _bloody hell does this mean_?

"Hang on, Billy. How long have you had these codenames for Molly, did you say?"

"Uh. Dunno. Been a while. Mistah 'Olmes...I only joined 'im a few months back, but my mate, 'e's been with the network for 'ears. Says we've been callin' 'er these names for ages. Uh, ever since Mistah 'Olmes fell from the building, I reckon. And before that, they used to call 'er Coffee Machine, 'cept Mistah 'Olmes didn't like that one no more after their relationship changed, yeh know? I dunno if the 'Is' part is part of the codename, but whenever Shezza talks to me, 'e always says things like 'My Patho'...yeh, know? And 'My Girl.'"

John Watson is so baffled that he stands there shocked for so many minutes that Wiggins gives _him_ a look, as if _John is the odd one_, and walks away. Of course, it is only the _bloody arse of a third brother_ who snaps him out of his dumbfounded trance.

"Hi," Roy says, beaming (_the fake, pretentious sod_) and opens his mouth to say more when a commotion from Sherlock's room causes everyone to look up.

It is Mycroft, red-faced and completely out of control, _bloody hell_. John has never seen the man show such a loss of his dignified façade, because he is so angry that he is barely able to sputter his words out.

"I've had it with you! I disown you! Time to time again, Sherlock, you have put the delicate balance of our family in jeopardy. I trusted you with one thing. Our beloved brother but instead, you go out and sabotage yourself with your hideous and vile drug habit to ruin Roytriam. I-for god's sake, I do not...I have no want for seeing your..._disgusting_ face near me again!"

With these words, Mycroft jabs his umbrella into the ground and begins to walk out, only pausing in front of John to say coldly, "I will find a suitable home for my only brother within a fortnight. Please control my ex-brother until then and I assure you that you will receive a good amount of compensation for your efforts. However, I must regrettably inform you that the protection that I placed over your family will be withdrawn. It is advisable to find new security quickly. I do not answer for my ex-brother any longer." He smiles, thin-lipped and cruel, and places an envelope in John's hands.

"James Moriarty sends his love."

* * *

If John Watson thought that spending a night in a hospital for overdose, drugging Molly Hooper and not remembering it, and being disowned by his elder brother would sober Sherlock Holmes up, he only finds out that he is dead wrong.

In fact, the _sodding dolt_ is back on drugs (_and stronger drugs to boot_!) within _one, bloody hour_ of being released from the hospital (_where he spent three bloody days recovering from last time_). To no one's surprise at this point, the _git_ leaves immediately to assert his title of _Most-Bloody-Possessive-and-Biggest Prat-in-the-Bloody-World (John's upped the title to go global, because he's pretty sure that no one else in the world could really be as an annoying dick as the consulting detective can_), grabbing the letter from Moriarty from John's hands without a word and taking refuge on Baker Street.

Of course,_ the said dick_ soon realizes that maybe, just maybe, he actually needs his blogger's help, so really, when the doctor gets a text from the detective saying to meet him at St. Bart's, John _just goes_.

So when John Watson arrives at the morgue, of course the _bloody git_ is nowhere to be found. In fact, the morgue is uncharacteristically empty and he almost leaves after an exasperated sigh, until he notices the door of the laboratory supply room slightly ajar. The _same bloody room that the arse has been sending Molly off to lately_, and of course, the doctor can't help his curiosity, so he makes his way over, because _what in bloody hell could be so interesting here_?

What he sees almost makes him drop to the ground in a dead faint.

_Bloody_ Sherlock Holmes has Molly Hooper pressed _flat against a wall_, his _bloody mouth attached to her bloody neck_. He's (_and god save John Watson because he doesn't know what to do with himself right now_) in the process of giving the petite pathologist an extraordinary amount of love bites. _Bloody love bites_!

John Watson has to clamp his hands over his mouth to keep from hyperventilating (_and giving his not-so-very discreet hiding spot away_).

_Bugger_. _Bloody Sherlock Holmes has finally become a man_. _Bloody Sherlock Holmes is _snogging_ Molly Hooper_.

He hears Sherlock _groan, and bloody moan_, and John falls to his _bloody knees because this is _not_ right_. Sherlock Holmes _shouldn't be making _those_ bloody sounds_. No. _Hell_, no. _Bloody hell, no_! _It's...a bloody unnatural _habitat_ for a consulting detective._

(_Well, thinks John's side of his brain that isn't frozen in shock, at least I know now that sodding Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a crush on Molly Hooper. He's bloody fucking her when I'm bloody not looking_!) John wonders if his body is going to shut down from this unexpected turn of events (_if they start bloody shagging, he thinks his heart will give out_).

Sherlock is holding the pathologist's wrists above her head (_bit possessive, if you ask John Watson_), but lets them in go in favour of holding her head as he presses his _bloody tongue_ hungrily into her _mouth_. John blinks in disbelief as the consulting detective _lifts Molly's legs and hoists her onto his waist before he proceeds to grind against her_. The whole time, the tiny pathologist is gasping, and the blogger feels the back of his neck go very warm. _Oh, god, John is blushing from embarrassment_.

Or maybe, John Watson must be hallucinating, he reasons, because this is probably the most erotic thing the doctor's ever witnessed and surely _bloody Mr. I-Don't-Do-Sentiment Sherlock Holmes_ wouldn't be capable of its creation?

"Molly," Sherlock breathes, and John sees the muscles in the arms of the consulting detective clench as Sherlock suddenly flings off his coat (_as if he's desperate and consumed with lust_!) and John isn't fast enough to dodge the heavy Belstaff, which, of course, just _has to land on John's bloody head_. Temporarily blinded, the doctor flails around (_as silently as he can_) and can't help but notice the heady odour of the coat, which, if John admits, makes the whole moment a lot sexier if the _bloody git smells like _that_ to Molly_. And then he realizes the direction his thoughts are heading in and blushes harder, all the while keeping up a mantra of _not gay, not gay, not gay in his head, bloody hell_.

He hears Molly gasp again (_oh god, the git's slipped his hand into her trousers, John sees through a button hole_) and John is ready to bolt because he's _definitely not the kind of bloke who's going to stand and watch his bloody, previously-thought-to-be asexual best friend _shag_ a woman who rips open dead bodies for a bloody living_..._in a supply room_. Really, John admires, they fit well together.

_Fit_..._oh god_, John Watson is _not_ going to think about that. _Nope_. He's not _bloody_ going_ there_.

"Sherlock, please," Molly begs, and _yes, yes, yes, John is definitely out of here and done with thinking about abuse, because if Molly's asking, really, then they can work out whatever twisted, bloody relationship that they've got going, because John Watson is done with this (and here he's been, bloody sick with worry thinking...oh, god, the bloody git really needs to read a dating book or something)!_

So it is when the doctor is picking himself off his knees, having finally managed to get the coat off his head, and is getting ready to run away, that he first notices that he is wrong. Molly Hooper is not gasping with delight as _Sex God Sherlock Holmes gives it to her_. No, _bloody hell no_.

She's _sobbing_.

"_Please_, Sherlock," she pleads. "Stop. _Please_."

_No_.

_No_, is all John thinks, because _no_, his best friend isn't capable of _this_ and because _no_, Sherlock isn't...he's not, right? He's not...Molly..._no_!

"_Sherlock_," Molly's saying and her voice is starting to sound more and more frantic, "Sherlock, _please_. I'm...I'm at work. It...it still hurts. _P-Please, please_."

But the consulting detective isn't listening, and when her sobs become really loud, he silences them by pressing his mouth to her lips again, as he begins to undo the buttons on her shirt.

John is frozen. All he sees are Molly's silent tears, and he's stilling think _no_. _No_, this _can't_ be happening, because if the doctor is honest with himself, he's never really believed his own suspicions. He still can't believe them even now.

So maybe that's why John finds his feet moving of their own volition, and he's backing out of the room, trying to forget this, to un-see it, and his mind is whispering that he's a coward, and that he's hurting Molly Hooper right now just as badly as Sherlock is hurting her because John is running away from the problem and he's not planning to do anything about it.

And then, just as he's trying to flee, John Watson freezes when a new voice joins the room, and speaks, and it is so hateful that the doctor shudders.

"_Sherlock_," the voice says, and it has its effect, because Sherlock Holmes becomes still.

**END OF PART ONE**.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

**A/N: I have a Tumblr account so feel free to follow. I do follow back unless you're porn addict. Haha. I only reblog but I feel like we'll have common interests :) Shoot me a message there if you like or on this site, especially if you're confused about the story. Both will get you quick responses. I am 60r3d0m on Tumblr. The 0's are zeros. 6 is six. I'm not very creative, as you can see.**

* * *

_John is frozen. All he sees are Molly's silent tears, and he's still thinking _no_. _No_, this _can't_ be happening, because if the doctor is honest with himself, he's never really believed his own suspicions. He still can't believe them even now._

_So maybe that's why John finds his feet moving of their own volition, and he's backing out of the room, trying to forget this, to un-see it, and his mind is whispering that he's a coward, and that he's hurting Molly Hooper right now just as badly as Sherlock is hurting her because John is running away from the problem and he's not planning to do anything about it._

_And then, just as he's trying to flee, John Watson freezes when a new voice joins the room, and speaks, and it is so hateful that the doctor shudders._

_"_Sherlock_," the voice says, and it has its effect, because Sherlock Holmes becomes still._

* * *

When he realizes that Moriarty is back, no one else does, but this time, he knows that he can't do it alone, so he says those words to her because he knows that she'll understand.

"What do you need," he says, and his voice sounds angry, because he can't help it when he stares at his elder brother, who's smiling back, and Sherlock knows right then, from the details of the suit that he is wearing and the placement of his tie, so much like Mycroft's fashion sense and yet so different, that Roy Holmes has done it. He's shaken hands with the devil, somewhere in his twenty-five years in prison, he has met and embraced Moriarty, and Sherlock can tell right then that Roy Holmes is just as dedicated to Jim Moriarty as Sebastian Moran and all of those other villains were because his eyes _gleam_ with devotion, so much devotion for the consulting criminal (_and that he's about to make Sherlock's life hell, just like he did when they were children_).

At first, Molly doesn't understand. She laughs at what he says, looks at the hand that he's got on her arm pointedly, and tells him, "You could start by taking your hand off my arm, Sherlock."

He grits his teeth, and is insistent. "What do you need. That's your line."

And right there, she knows it. She knows that he's asking for her help, and when she repeats those same words back to him (_so crucial, so important_), she leaves with him so quickly, to the laboratory supply room, the one place they cannot be watched.

He tells her and she's scared (_because really, he shot himself in the back of the head so how can he be back_?). But she listens, she understands, so he asks her, even though he knows the answer.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

No hesitation. Everything, anything, she's willing to give to him, and she'll do it again (_and he loves her for it_).

They concoct a plan within thirty minutes. He's not sure if it's a good plan, but she says nothing, stays silent until he mentions the drugs.

She doesn't even say no. She just slaps him.

"They'll be fake, Molly," he says in frustration when she's readying her hand for round two with his face. "I won't actually take them. Of course, the visible signs will have to be there, but those can be recreated in the lab with less addictive chemicals. The rest will be acting." So when she doesn't look convinced, he takes her hand, clenches it tightly in his, and says, "I wouldn't. _Never_," and he looks at her so intensely, searches her eyes _(desperately, because he finds that he always wants to prove his actions to her_) and she nods, because she believes him.

And then he tells her that he loves her, something that he's been trying to say for years now, but couldn't because of _the Tom_, but now, it seems pointless, because he's about to ask so much of her, and because he's wanted to say it for so long, has been trying to work up the courage, but cowering, and instead invading her personal space with no apparent reason (_and she always steps away, he's noticed_), but he just wants to be close to her.

When she says she loves him, too, the euphoria only lasts so long, because they are faced with the seriousness of the situation again.

And then he begins to talk rapidly, going over the plan, one more time, before they employ it, and she finally questions it, tries to persuade him that John may never forgive him, but Sherlock can't tell John. Not yet. He has to make sure, he has to be positive that his vow to the Watson family will be secured, and this, he thinks, is the only way for it, so he tells her what they're going to do, mostly the whole truth, but some lies (_because he has to protect her, and if she knows everything, she will hurt harder_).

"Moriarty must believe that I am truly alone before he presents his Final Problem. The drugs will let him slip into ease, but you, Molly, you are integral to this plan," he says. "If I have learned anything, it is that no matter how rude I am, no matter how terrible, John will not abandon me. None of them will. But you. If I...hurt you, there will be no forgiveness. They will leave me, and when the right time appears, you must leave me, too. We must make certain that Moriarty thinks that I am alone before he decides to spring into action, and when he does, you will be there to call John back. You will be the evidence, the truth for all of them, and we will ensnare Moriarty in his own trap."

So when she knows that he doesn't plan to be alone in the very end, they agree on the steps.

They stage his levels of aggression (_because they have to go slow, or else no one will believe them_). Each time, they plan. The first time, it is vague. Molly bursts out of the supply room with tears in his eyes. The second time, they bring in a domestic abuse victim. He deduces the corpse, trying to make John's mind think, before he tries to disappear inside the room to attend to a 'matter.' When the electronics go off, he suppresses the urge to whoop, because he knows right then what the Final Problem is, and Sherlock's plan is in the _right_ path.

And then they up the aggression, and when John accidentally hears Sherlock whisper instructions into Molly's ears, it turns out to be a good mistake, because that is finally when John starts to suspect him. It is going so well, and when the consulting detective orders the pathologist into the room, he sees even Roy Holmes jump at the sound of Sherlock's voice, and Sherlock knows, this is so good, because if Roy believes the act, Moriarty will believe it, too. They plan the last act, the one that will move John away from him, and it is a way to show Sherlock's lapse in control. So the consulting detective doesn't even need to fake tremors that day, because Molly is allowing him to drug her (_and she needs sleep, because she dreams too much of Moriarty_), so when he has a lapse in his artificial demeanor and kisses Molly when she's unconscious in front of John, he hopes that the doctor will chalk it up to the drugs.

Their relationship is odd. When they are hidden from all eyes, they exchange sweet, chaste kisses. They take it slow, still learning. But when the time comes to plan, Sherlock holds nothing back in their practice, ravaging her mouth desperately and she clings back to him just as much.

Mycroft is alerted. When he comes to the hospital when Sherlock fakes his drug overdose (_the report is changed easily_), the consulting detective tells him most of the truth (_and a few lies, because it's never good to tell Mycroft everything_), and the British government walks out, making a show of disowning him, and of course, Roy sees it, and Moriarty thinks that he's winning (_when really, he's not_).

The only mistake Sherlock makes is Wiggins.

Wiggins has a big mouth, and when he lets too much slip to John, they lose their edge. He panics when Moriarty sends him the first envelope, and Sherlock snatches it from John before the doctor can have a look, because when the consulting detective opens it, there are pictures of John's daughter, and Sherlock _needs, needs, needs_ to drive John away from him _now_, so Sherlock plays on John's weakness: the war.

The war, where there is murder, and where there is rape. This war that upsets John Watson more than anything because in war, everything is meaningless.

And so, they are here.

"Molly," he breathes, and he feels her, hot against him, _burning, burning, burning_ with her _fear_. Her eyes meet his, and she's trembling, aware that the move that they are about to pull on John Watson may be unforgivable (_but he hopes it's not, because John said that he was his best friend, and Sherlock, if he's aware of anything, is that he wants to still be a best friend after this is all over, if it's ever over_). So he swallows, and closes his eyes briefly, before he rips the coat off his body. He needs maximum movement, because when John realizes what is going on, Sherlock's not sure if he can prevent the doctor from killing him.

He glances back. He's not sure why he does it. Maybe it's a last attempt to see what his friend looks like when the doctor still _considers_ Sherlock a friend, but then the consulting detective realizes that he's accidentally flung his coat onto the blogger's head, so in the end, they are both blinded men with no way to see each other, (_and it's so much harder to do_), so his hand trembles when he slips it down the pathologist's trousers, fully aware that John will interpret this as a sexual advance.

Molly knows right away. _Of course_. They've practiced this a thousand times, until he's drilled the responses into her head. When he taps the assigned pattern onto her thigh, she bites her lip, and gives the barest of nods. She's ready. She knows the pattern. She knows the response. It's the same one that Sherlock thinks John Watson overheard in the lab.

_Beg for mercy_.

So she does. She cries. It's easy, because when Sherlock breathes on to her ear, like he's done so many times in the morgue, her eyes sting as they dry, and the tears come down of their own accord. Naturally for an unnatural cause, but also because this pain that they're inflicting on their loved ones _hurts_ and _cripples_ her, and him. And she says the phrases. The same words (_always the same_), just varied in their order.

"_Please_, Sherlock," she begs (_begs so well that he feels it like a jab to the heart, even though he knows it's not real. They designed it, after all_), and then, of course, mercy. "It...it still hurts. _P-Please, please_."

And he performs his part. Unrelenting. A bastard. A villain. He takes her mouth in his, begins to unbutton her shirt, and he's trying so hard (_so, so, so hard_) to keep his hands from shaking, because this is it, and he can't help it, when a tear slips down his cheek, onto her face. John will hate him. Hate him _so much_.

And then he hears it. John's voice. Seething, seething, seething with _hate_.

"_Sherlock_," John says, and for a moment, there is silence.

Sherlock Holmes stiffens, because he's never heard such venom from John (_and it's never been directed at him before, this terrible voice_) and his whole body readies for the inevitable blows.

"_Sherlock_," John says again, still hateful, but he sounds as if he's just realized that the voice is his own, and that the hate is all his, too.

Of course, he comes, pulling him to the ground. John Watson is pummelling him with his fists, and all Sherlock can see is blood and pain and he thinks he's going to die (_because John thinks he's a monster, and Sherlock really doesn't blame him_) but he stays in his role, as the villain, because they've worked too hard, him and Molly, and he needs to make sure that John Watson's life is safe from Moriarty.

So he throws a few punches, too, swears and curses, so unlike himself, and pretends to be high (_even though he hasn't taken a thing since the Magnussen case, and he's been pretending day in and day out, using the chemicals at the lab to change the redness of his eyes, the tremor in his hands, trying his best to convince everyone that he is a druggie with serious self control problems_). And he can hear Molly's terrified screaming, and he hopes, _wills_ that she'll stick to the plan, no matter how badly John Watson hurts him.

But Molly Hooper hates the pain of other people, and she throws herself over his body, telling John to stop, and before John realizes what's happened, his fist has collided with the pathologist, and he hears Molly gasp and Sherlock is terrified (_so, so, so terrified_) because he doesn't know where John's hit her, and it could be anywhere, and there are just _too many_ dangerous spots on the human body (_he knows—he's studied them all_).

So he flips them around, so that his body is a shield over hers, just in case John punches again without realizing to whom the impact is going, and Sherlock's not sure how much longer he can keep awake, keep conscious so that he doesn't crush her underneath him (_but he can feel it and it's not much longer_).

He's breathing hard, and his blood is dripping onto her face (_he can see her resolve breaking_), so voice hoarse, begging, he whispers, "Keep...keep to the...plan, Molly."

And in that moment, Sherlock can see that she hates him, just like John, because she can see that he's hurting, and he's telling her to let it go. Let him hurt. She shakes her head, and Sherlock knows if he doesn't stop her soon, their efforts will be wasted, so he tells her what he knows will work. The pain of others. "For John. For Mary. Their child."

And it does work. Her body slumps with defeat and he presses his lips to her cheek, and tastes her tears, because she's crying. She can't help him. He won't let her (_he needs to keep her safe_).

John doesn't see any of this. He's frozen in shock because he's finally realized that he's struck Molly, and then, he's pulling Sherlock off of her (_and the consulting detective is trying to breathe, because John's lifted him by the collar and Sherlock thinks that he's choking on his own blood_).

"Molly," John says and his face is pale. "I'm so sorry. God, I thought I hit him. I..._Molly_."

And because Sherlock still has a shred of consciousness still left in, he searches his brain for the most bastard thing that he can think of (_anything that'll convince John that Sherlock is a possessive monster_).

"Coat," he gasps, voice hoarse, and he starts to hear derisive giggling (_that terrible laughter from his childhood, always haunting him in his worst moments_), so he knows that he's losing it. He's fading. "Wear my coat, Molly...you're...not decent...stay away...stay away from my girl, John."

And that's it. That's when John Watson delivers the final blow that knocks Sherlock out cold**.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_And because Sherlock still has a shred of consciousness still left in, he searches his brain for the most bastard thing that he can think of (_anything that'll convince John that Sherlock is a possessive monster_)._

_"Coat," he gasps, voice hoarse, and he starts to hear derisive giggling (_that terrible laughter from his childhood, always haunting him in his worst moments_), so he knows that he's losing it. He's fading. "Wear my coat, Molly...you're...not decent...stay away...stay away from my girl, John."_

_And that's it. That's when John Watson delivers the final blow that knocks Sherlock out cold**.**_

* * *

When he wakes up, it is in a hospital bed, so he closes his eyes as soon as he opens them, because_ he's_ there, by his sickbed, as if he cares, and if Sherlock is sure of anything, it's that he hates _him and his mocking voice _and it is a reciprocal relationship.

"Rise and shine, little brother," says Roy, and he's grinning, with his shiny, perfect teeth and perfect smile (_and Sherlock hates him so much, because he'll never forgive him for Redbeard_).

"Go away," Sherlock spits, and he hates that his voice sounds so small, just like before, just like when they were children and _he_ would laugh at Sherlock.

"Still on about that dog, are you? Your _pet_? My, little brother, I never thought you were the sentimental type. Didn't you give up on it all like our elder brother? Mycroft's gotten very good at it, I hear, forgetting sentiment. Disowned you a few days back, didn't he?"

Roy smiles and leans in, breathing, "And John Watson, I think that you'd like to hear about him, too. See, after he had his fists bandaged—he bashed your head in, didn't he, little brother?—he called the police. Greg Lestrade is here, trying to get your bitch to talk. To press _charges_." He sits back and Sherlock's trying his best to keep under control, even though he's burning with fury (_because Molly is her name)_. "Turns out she's pretty loyal, although I do have to wonder why after the way you've been treating her." He sighs, overdramatically, and it irks Sherlock, because that's the way the consulting detective is supposed to sigh when he's bored, not _Roy Holmes_. "Although, you never know. People are changeable, after all, little brother. Never know when she'll talk. Who knows? You might find yourself in prison for twenty-five years. It happened to me, after all, and we're alike, aren't we? The same sweet voices, the same fake smiles, and she comes crawling to us, to you and I. You do remember, don't you? I had everything that you had. Maybe it's your turn to have it the other way around. Prison isn't pleasant, but it might do you some good. Everybody needs to be thrown off their high horse once in a while."

But Sherlock knows that they aren't alike (_because Moriarty said it, too, and the consulting detective proved him wrong, and will do it again_), so he can't help but snarl his next line. "What do you want?"

Roy laughs, and again, Sherlock hears the derisive giggles from long ago.

"Little brother, you know what I want. It's always you. What you want is what matters. You wanted friends, so I had them instead. You wanted Redbeard, so I took him away. Mummy thought your toes were cute, so I tried to take them, too. Too bad for that doctor, little brother. Imagine your feet if he hadn't been around to save them. Really, I can't imagine how they would've hurt. I've only ever stubbed my toes, and that hurt plenty, so I'm sure that you had a lot more fun with your little toesies."

Sherlock is shaking. He can't help it (_because he still remembers the fire that his feet felt then_).

"Tell me, little brother. Do you want Molly Hooper?"

And that's it, because Sherlock has had it, and he's reaching for his elder brother's neck, and he doesn't care if he breaks all of the stitches that the doctors have patched him up with, because just once, he wants to curl his fists around Roy's neck and make him feel all of the pain that Sherlock has felt all of these years.

But then he's fading again, feels the energy go out of him as Roy pushes a button and the IV pours sedatives into his bloodstream, and he finds himself screaming at his brother, telling him feverishly, spewing lies, just trying, and trying to scare him. "I know. I know you work for him. Moriarty. I know everything. I'm...I'm going to tell Mycroft...He'll throw...you back into prison...I'm..."

But Sherlock hears Roy laugh. "Oh, my poor, little brother. Did you forget that he disowned you?"

But Sherlock knows that he didn't, and that Mycroft has been watching Roy, watching all those tapes from all those years that Roy spent in prison, and he's looking, looking to see when Roy first met Moriarty. "Why do you hate me?" Sherlock mutters, as sleep begins to take him, because really, it's the one question that Sherlock's always wondered, and he thinks that he knows the answer, but he doesn't want to remember it, so he shoves into the shadows of his mind palace.

Roy is unsmiling when he answers.

"You know why," he says, "and you know it was your fault."

* * *

Four days, he spends in the hospital. Four days, and Moriarty sends him more envelopes, more pictures, but to his relief, none of them no longer concern John (_because the consulting criminal believes his ruse_). Now, the pictures are of Molly.

"You have to leave me," he tells her, and his heart twists because he doesn't want this, can't bear to see her walk away, even if it is only pretend. And yet he knows that there is no other way, so he will do it, to hide her from the monster by becoming the monster himself.

They're in Baker Street, and they begin to plan, plan the last four steps, the last four times that he will hurt her. The first part is easy, because they need to push Mrs. Hudson away from Sherlock, so when she comes interrupting them in the middle of their practice of the scenario, she sees so much that they go ahead with it blindly.

"Hoo hoo," the landlady says, knocking on the side of the door, and Sherlock tries to keep from shaking (_because after this, he knows that Mrs. Hudson will never knock like that again, because she will be too scared, and even if she ever forgives him, she still won't do it, because memories scar, and Sherlock is about to tear her apart_).

She ventures in closer, and at first, she doesn't notice Molly, and as always, she begins to babble about insignificant things, and Sherlock drifts into his Mind Palace, begins shutting down every emotion that he possesses, save for anger (_because the show is about to start, and for the briefest moment, he lets guilt consume him before he seals it away_).

"I was just coming in to get my herbal soothers, Sherlock. Where have you put them? Oh, Sherlock, it's just my hip. Oh, it's been hurting more than usual and I haven't talked to your brother, dear. I did exactly like I promised you. Not a word. But really, Sherlock, you need to stop stealing them. I do have a typing job, you know, dear, and sitting down is awfully hard when my hip is just driving me up the wall, oh. Even Mrs. Turner's noticed that my hip is worse than usual, and yesterday...oh, but Sherlock, dear, you're like my son, so I wish you wouldn't take things, and...well, so is John, although maybe John's a bit more of a son-in-law, if you know what I mean? Sort of like the married ones that live next door. They're photographers, did you know that, Sherlock? So many cameras. They showed me their pictures, and oh, they were so beautiful. I didn't realize that you'd let them take pictures of you, Sherlock, but..."

She looks at him suddenly, astonished, because she sees Molly and her eyes brighten and she coos, "Oh, Sherlock! You have a lady friend! Molly, dear, oh, it's so good to see you again. Oh, I hope everything is well. Our Sherlock's always stealing my phone to talk to you, but the things that I hear him say to you...And just yesterday, John came over asking for you. He said that you told him to meet—"

"Can I get you your herbal soothers, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asks, just as he drifts out of his Mind Palace, and he's confused, because she's not supposed to talk. She's supposed to cry and whimper, and Sherlock tries to keep from shooting a look in her direction _because what is she doing to their plan?_

So he begins to panic, because no, everything they worked for can't be broken down just because Mrs. Hudson is a sweet, old lady, so he hisses, "Sit down," at Molly, and Mrs. Hudson frowns at his aggression, reprimanding, "Sherlock! Dear, that isn't any way to treat—"

"What. Do. You. Want. From. Me?"

"Now, Sherlock, my herbal soothers! I did tell you, but did you listen? Of course not. Oh, Sherlock, dear, you really must..."

Sherlock's breath hitches in his throat, and he doesn't understand why he's feeling this. He shut out everything, but this, this isn't anger, and maybe it's because Mrs. Hudson is looking at him, and she's trailing off, eyes widening in shock, when she finally realizes the tone with which Sherlock has spoken to her just moments ago, so she freezes, and her shoulders seem to curl in, along with her whole body, as if she's trying to shrink into a little ball.

"Sherlock?" she says, and her eyes well up with tears.

So with his lips trembling, he manages to pull a sneer (_because he's hoping that he is wrong, these feelings_) and tells her everything that he has deduced about the feisty landlady (_but never said, because he loved her like a mother, and he still does, even though he thinks he's burning from the inside-out right now_).

"I don't pay you for excessive chatter, do I, Mrs. Hudson? So what do you want from me? I don't have your drugs. Calling them herbal soothers will hardly detract from the fact that you once headed a cartel in Mexico and that you are still an addicted user. Oh, don't give me that look. Do you think that I don't know that you've invented Mrs. Turner? You _are_ Mrs. Turner. It was simple enough to figure out. A fake name, trying to hide your involvement with the big gangs that still hunt you down for that double-cross, and a illegitimate daughter that you had with one of your exotic dancing customers, and of which, you _still_ don't the identity of the father. And she was dropped promptly at an orphanage, wasn't she? My, Mrs. Hudson, just like your little typist job, your daughter's become quite an accomplished typist herself, hasn't she, that Kitty Riley? Oh, _please._ Don't look so surprised. One merely has to look at the hair colour that you share and the way that you flit about avoiding every article written by her to put two and two together. That, and the telling time that you cried about it to John, thinking that I wouldn't hear it. What did you think that you were doing? _Sparing me the pain_? Really, 'Mrs. Hudson,' I know everything, always, so what did you think would happen?"

And this time, Sherlock doesn't even need to use Molly to hurt a loved one, because his words are blades, and they've stabbed the landlady in the heart.

Mrs. Hudson is gone.

Sherlock crumbles.

* * *

The last three stages they have planned scare him, because they have to do with Roy Holmes, and Sherlock has to leave Molly alone with his brother, and nothing, nothing is worse than this, but they will do it (_to save the others_).

"It's time for you to leave me," he tells her again, "and the only way possible is to convince my brother that you and I both want it. We will stage a scenario, and then I will leave briefly. In that time, my brother will come to you. He can never help his flirting. You will tell him that you fear me, and ask for his help. He will give it to you because he will think that he can deliver you to Moriarty. I will come in, angry. This will occur two times in total. The third time, I will say that I am leaving you because you've been too close to my brother. You will pretend to be frightened then and tell my brother that you are running away, because you fear for your life. Say that now that I have left you, you think that I might kill you for your association with my brother. At this point, Mycroft will pick you up later that day and take you to a safe house." He pauses before he says his last words, because he knows that she will try to object, so with steel determination in his eyes, he looks at her and say firmly, "You will _not_ return, Molly, until I contact you again."

She is silent, and he supposes it is good enough, but doesn't realize until much later that she never agrees.

So the day that they plan for the first of the three stages to happen, he's a little thrown aback when he sees John there, in the morgue, because Sherlock thought that John would hate him too much to return.

But then he sees Greg Lestrade, standing in the corner of the room, and when Sherlock growls, "What are you doing here, Geoffery?", Lestrade tells him that he's here investigating a case of domestic abuse with John, and he's so cold to Sherlock, so unlike himself, and Sherlock knows that if the inspector detective doesn't hate the consulting detective yet, after what he sees today, he will definitely hate him after.

It is tricky ground to tread, because Sherlock can't afford to get arrested (_not yet_), so whatever they do has to be extreme enough, but not too extreme, because unlike last time, Molly can't lie if the DI sees it with his own eyes.

So when Roy arrives, they go with the usual act, him jumpy and glaring daggers at anyone who looks at Molly (_although he doesn't really have to pretend with Roy because whenever Roy looks at Molly, it's as if his brother is undressing her with his eyes, and Sherlock feels violent enough to rip out Roy's eyeballs right out of their sockets_).

He takes her by the wrist to his microscope, and John recognizes this movement, because the last time he did this, John heard Molly beg for mercy, so naturally, Lestrade and John move up, ready to take him down. But instead, he kisses her, fiercely, roughly, like some sort of monster, and Molly makes the right distressed sounds, but never says anything incriminating, so Lestrade and John hang back, uneasy (_but he sees the way that John's fists curl_).

He pushes her back into the desk, presses his body against hers, and he can feel Roy watching this, with interest, because all he's ever seen is Sherlock act possessive, but never, never has he seen Sherlock's show of possessiveness over her body.

He leaves her mouth to kiss her neck, and there are already tiny bruises there (_but they're love bites, and Lestrade can't arrest him for that_), and then Molly whimpers, saying just enough to show John a repeat of four days ago, but not enough to allow John to pin him down and batter him again.

"Sherlock," she says, "please. I-I have work. Please..."

And Sherlock can see the fury within John, almost wonders if he will get attacked again, but Lestrade puts a hand on the doctor's shoulder, restraining because he's doesn't want to end up arresting the blogger for assault instead.

Sherlock runs his hands up her body, groping like some villain (_and because he has to be_), and then, something happens that he doesn't expect.

Molly gasps, face paling and barely biting back a cry, while tears flood her eyes (_tears that Sherlock knows aren't fake_). He feels her legs go weak, and he grabs her around the waist because she's falling. He looks at her, searching her eyes, and it takes every inch of him to not let the concern show (_because Roy is watching, and if he sees, their whole plan will become tatters_), but really, his heart is hammering because something is wrong, and he doesn't know what it is.

She lets out a small breath, and he feels her stand back up, but he doesn't let go of her waist. When he fails to pick up their previous act, she presses into him, just slightly, warning him, and he's hesitant, when he begins to run his hands along her body again, kissing her, roughly, but not cruelly this time, and all the while, his thoughts are _spinning, spinning, spinning_.

He feels one of her hands grab his shirt, and then he notices a pattern.

Every time his hands run up on to her shoulder, she gasps a little into his mouth, her fingers grasp his shirt harder, and he feels her knees go weak, if only just a little. So he pulls away, because she's in _pain_ and he doesn't know why, and he pushes the blouse away from that shoulder, and what he sees makes his stomach flip.

A bruise, purple and red, and _angry_, the size of his hand, and his mind is reeling, because he's never hurt her (_and he never will_), so what is this? Who has touched Molly?

But John sees it and the doctor's eyes widen in disbelief, and Lestrade sees it, too, and then, before Sherlock can even comprehend what's happening, he finds himself on the ground, and Lestrade is hand-cuffing him, and the detective inspector is shaking so hard, as if he can't believe his eyes.

And then Sherlock sees him, and it's as if static has entered his mind, because Roy is there, and he's smiling, and his eyes gleam with secrets.

Roy grins.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_A bruise, purple and red, and _angry_, the size of his hand, and his mind is reeling, because he's never hurt her (_and he never will_), so what is this? Who has touched Molly?_

_But John sees it and the doctor's eyes widen in disbelief, and Lestrade sees it, too, and then, before Sherlock can even comprehend what's happening, he finds himself on the ground, and Lestrade is hand-cuffing him, and the detective inspector is shaking so hard, as if he can't believe his eyes._

_And then Sherlock sees him, and it's as if static has entered his mind, because Roy is there, and he's smiling, and his eyes gleam with secrets._

_Roy grins._

* * *

Sherlock doesn't know when he goes into his Mind Palace, but he becomes aware of it soon after.

From the outside world, he hears voices, arguing, feels someone tug on his hands, and maybe Molly's voice, pleading with Lestrade, telling him that the bruise isn't Sherlock's fault, and he hears John's voice, guilty, telling Lestrade that really, it isn't Sherlock, and it is then that Sherlock remembers when John accidentally hit Molly when the doctor was beating up the consulting detective, and then, _of course_, Sherlock knows that it wasn't Roy Holmes who did it, but even despite this fact, he's staring at his brother's face, who's smiling at him, amused that Sherlock Holmes is being detained on the floor for a crime that he didn't commit.

He's wading through his Mind Palace, descending the stairs, going down into those crevices where he keeps the things that he hates. He runs past Moriarty's cell, and takes another left, and then he's on an elevator, lowering himself further and further until he comes to the Iron Chamber.

The Iron Chamber, the place where he keeps things, the things that he wants to forget and never remember, because they are humiliating, embarrassing, and painful, and the place where there is always a fire burning, the flames licking at his body as he makes his way in. Here, he meets his memories, the ones that he flung out so long ago, because otherwise, they follow him, torture him, and never let him go.

"_Why do you hate me?"_

Sherlock's voice echoes in this chamber, so loud that he winces from the noise that meets his ears, and then Roy's voice, answers, louder and louder, telling him over and over again, "_You know why and you know it was your fault._"

This is delirium, Sherlock thinks, but now, as the fire burns his body, he's running again, into the library, into that corner, and he pulls out the book, the one where he put everything about Roy Holmes in, the brother who is a stranger to him because Sherlock remembers nothing, because he deleted him from his mind.

Now he opens the book, closes his eyes, and when he opens them, it is to stand in those very memories that he banished so long ago.

_"Pwease, Mycwoft, pwease," Sherlock is begging, four years old, with tears in his eyes. "Pwease teach me the magic twick. Pwease."_

_Thirteen old Mycroft Holmes scoffs, turns his chin up, snooty, and in his most regal tones, admonishes, "It's not a trick, Sherlock. It's called _deduction_. And no, I won't show you. You're a _baby_. You can't even pronounce my name. Now go away. I have better things to do. I have a _girlfriend_, you know."_

_Sherlock opens his mouth, to ask again, but he sneezes, and when his eyes open again, his elder brother is already gone. He rubs at these eyes, whimpers, and goes back to playing with Redbeard, but then he hears footsteps, and he looks up and four year old Sherlock beams, because it's him, his _favourite_ brother, who always plays pirates with him, who doesn't care that Sherlock can't pronounce his Ls and Rs yet like Mycroft hates, and who doesn't care that Sherlock hasn't mastered the way to conjugate the verbs of the English language, and then, right there, Sherlock knows that Roy will help him, teach him Mycroft's magic trick._

_"Woy," he shrieks, voice high (_because he's four and he gets excited easily_), and he runs, legs wobbly because he learned to walk late, grabs his brother's leg and asks, "Woy, can you pwease teach me Mycwoft's magic twick? Detection?", and he looks up at his seven year old brother, with wide eyes, still a little watery from crying, and gives a shy smile (_because whenever he does it with Mummy, she always gives him all the sweets that he wants, and Roy is _just_ like Mummy, always smiling, always kind_)._

_"Deduction?" Roy asks and grins, eyes twinkling, and Sherlock knows that his favourite brother must know how to do it, too._

_"Yeah!" Sherlock squeals, and he's getting excited, because he's finally going to be able to do what Mycroft can do, and then, because he trusts Roy, he whispers a little secret to him. "Woy, Mycwoft knowed that I peed on the bed again in my sweep. It was his magic mind twick. He saided that it was 'cause of the way I putted on my shoes!"_

_And Roy, his favourite brother does teach him, and all four year old Sherlock Holmes can think is how _good_ his big brother is to him, and how he will always be the _best_ brother._

But then Sherlock Holmes is back in the Iron Chamber, and he's confused, because this isn't a bad memory, so what is it doing here in this place, where everything is meant to burn but never does?

_"You know why, and you know it was your fault."_

The words echo again, those ones from that day in the hospital, when John punched him, and Sherlock wants to stay in his Mind Palace, figure out where things went so wrong with his brother, but he can hear Lestrade's voice, pulling him back into the real world, and then, his handcuffs are being taken off, and Sherlock is here again, into reality.

* * *

"Well, well, little brother," Roy says, when Lestrade and John have left. "I really did think that you put that bruise on poor Molly Hooper. Who would have thought that it would be John Watson's fault? But I did see you looking at me. Did you suspect me, little brother, is that what it was?"

But Sherlock ignores him, grits his teeth, and looks back through the lens of the microscope. He doesn't know why he can't come up with something to say back to him, and that boiling rage he feels around his elder brother has dissipated into something dull, like a blunt blade that stabs him constantly, but not with piercing pains, just _aches and aches and aches_ that don't go away. Finally, he snaps back, "Why are you here?"

"I have permission," Roy says, grinning wickedly like usual. "Mycroft. I told him that the morgue keeps me busy. We all know how destructive a bored Holmes can get. And after all, that Molly is quite a pretty princess to look at."

Of course Sherlock knows, because Mycroft and him have planned this, to get Roy to go where Molly can pretend to look sad, and confess her artificial plans to run away. So Sherlock gets up, goes to Molly's office, and they prepare, get ready to execute these plans, and they do, over a week and a half, on two separate occasions, and then it is the night before the last one, the last time Molly will pretend to fear Sherlock, and tomorrow, Sherlock knows that Mycroft will take Molly to a safe house, and he doesn't know when he will see her again.

They spend the last night at Baker Street.

It isn't the safest place, Sherlock knows, but he has been constantly sweeping the place for hidden cameras, bugs, anything that Roy Holmes may have planted for Moriarty's uses. Good to his word, Mycroft Holmes has relocated the third Holmes brother in a hotel, but because he doesn't know who to trust anymore, and because Sherlock Holmes' world has become a convoluted place in these last few weeks, he tells Molly to whisper her words while they are together.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asks. "She's the only one here."

"Yes," he says, tensely, and doesn't offer more, because how can he convey to her the betrayal that he is feeling? The betrayal that he has felt ever since he heard Mrs. Hudson's talk of herbal soothers, even when he tried to shut out every emotion (_but it didn't work, because when he asked her what she wanted, Mrs. Hudson echoed Moriarty's words, and he knew right there that there was something wrong, a sinister secret that the landlady has been hiding_).

_"What. Do. You. Want. From. Me?" _he remembers asking.

"_Now, Sherlock, my herbal soothers! I did tell you, but did you listen? Of course not_."

Moriarty's words. That cruel voice that taunted him on the rooftop about the Final Problem.

"_I did tell you, but did you listen_?"

The same words that Mrs. Hudson used, and he wonders how long she's been pretending, how long she's been ferreting secrets back to the consulting criminal, and why she chose those words. He remembers her babbling, and he wonders, if it was a message from Moriarty, but he was too busy not listening, and now he wonders how many important things the landlady could have said, but he simply doesn't know because he didn't try to hear them. Were they threats?

He hopes that he's wrong for once. Never hopes harder than now, because Mrs. Hudson has been Mummy to him in Baker Street all these years that he hasn't seen Mummy that often, and why, why, _why_ would Mrs. Hudson want to hurt him?

So he pushes it from his mind, and it is only later that he will discover that Mrs. Hudson isn't in league with Moriarty after all (_and that fact has saved his life, but he just doesn't know it yet_).

He takes Molly's hand, leads her to his bedroom, and when they're lying down, he wraps his arm around her waist, and really, he doesn't intend to do anything but sleep, but he can't stop staring at her face (_because he thinks that he might die soon_).

Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is slowing. She's falling asleep, a place that used to be safe but isn't, because now she always sees Moriarty in her dreams. He finds his hand trailing down to the collar of her shirt, pulls it aside, and looks at that horrible bruise.

"Sherlock?" she mumbles, when he runs his fingers down her shoulder (_lightly, because he doesn't want to hurt her_).

"Hm?" he replies, making a sound in his throat as if he, too, is falling asleep (_even though he isn't_).

"Can you turn out the light?"

He does it, even though it's not something he wants, because he needs to see her face, for as long as he can, but once the room is dark, he settles down, and his fingers still don't leave the bruise, until eventually, Molly turns around and breathes, "What's wrong?"

He wants to laugh, because what isn't wrong? But he doesn't, just swallows, and then, the tears come, unbidden, because Moriarty scares him out of his mind, and this time it's different from the rest of the times because he doesn't feel assured that he can kill the consulting criminal and end this mess, and he's crying just like he was the first time, the day that John yelled at him for Molly and taking drugs, and asked him about Moriarty.

Molly's fingers find his cheeks, feel the wetness, but she doesn't ask anything. She brushes his hair, runs her hands through his hair, and waits for him, just like she always does.

"This bruise," he eventually says, "is my fault."

"No," she says. "No, it's not. And it's not John's either."

"If I hadn't..." he starts, because he's just so sure that this is a mess, and now, he's wondering if really knows what the Final Problem is, and if he knows what he's doing at all.

"It's circumstance's fault," she whispers, and becomes quiet.

The silence lasts so long that he wonders if she has fallen asleep, so he presses his lips to her cheek, only to have her turn her head, and then, out of nowhere, he's kissing her in a way that he's never done before, and it is tender, and hungry, and loving, and lusting all at once, and he feels her hands on his chest, and his own fingers are undoing her buttons, and everything that's going on is so clumsy, because he's never done this before, not with anyone, and he's waited with Molly, not wanting to blur the lines between his shows of villainy and what he hopes will be real.

He's got her shirt off, and she's tossing his away, and his fingers are running up her body, and he's kissing that bruise on her shoulder, maybe hoping for a magic trick to cure it away.

And then both of them freeze, because coming down the hallway, towards Sherlock's bedroom, is a sound. A _tap-tap-tap_ that inches closer and closer in a menacing way.

The door swings open and as the light from the sitting room hits the darkened room, a shadow that he can't recognize falls onto the wall.

The _tap-tap-tap_ continues as the figure walks into the room. The light flips on, and Mycroft Holmes pauses to survey the situation, leaning on his umbrella as he does so.

"Brother mine, had I known that when I found you, I would come across such a compromising situation, I would not have been so discommodious a force. Not alarmed by sex any longer, are we? Ah, good evening to you, too, Dr. Hooper." He smiles pleasantly.

"Most people knock, Mycroft," Sherlock snarls, and noticing the British government's lingering eyes on his pathologist's form, he pulls the covers over her, before getting ready to wring his brother's neck.

Mycroft turns his attention to the brooding man before him, and says, "There is an urgent matter that requires your attention. I am afraid that I must interrupt and steal a few minutes out of this..._salacious_ nighttime activity."

When they are in the sitting room, Mycroft begins, "I have been watching the tapes of our dear brother's time spent in jail, and it would seem that he met James Moriarty on his very first night in the cell. They made quite the friendship. A lot of...maniacal laughter, if I might say so."

"Twenty-five years ago," Sherlock mutters.

"Thirty. Our brother was released five years ago, Sherlock, although I was only informed of it a few months ago when he contacted Mummy. That is to say if we don't count the brief week that he was allowed back to collect his things for the military base after he was arrested at the age of seven. I believe in that same week, he tried to cut off your toes, murdered, ah, helped Redbeard on his way to meet...a _higher being_, and attempted to drown you in the garden's swimming pool. Very Carl Powers, wouldn't you say? Nonetheless, he picked up a quite a bit of Moriarty's habits in a rather short span of time."

"Hm," Sherlock hums, and then, because he has been wondering for so, so, so long, he finds himself asking softly, "How ever did a Holmes turn out like that?"

Mycroft grimaces and answers, "Well, the Holmes family is reputed for their sharp minds. Naturally, it would only be a matter of time before one turned a little...sour. As it is, we've been reliably informed by our common adversary that you are an angel, are you not?"

"And Roy's joined the devil."

"Well, yes, I suppose there is no other way to put his association with Moriarty," Mycroft replies drily.

"And whose side are you on, Mycroft?"

The British government sticks his nose up in the air and says, "Well, I imagine that I am a divine force that monitors the good and the bad side."

At this, Sherlock can't help but snort. "Only you would say that, Mycroft. Now tell me, what are you really here for?" he breathes.

Mycroft sighs. "It would seem that the devil has sent another letter."

"More pictures of Molly?"

"Not quite."

A silence pervades the room as Mycroft turns over the letter.

_Hey, Sexy,_

_Did you miss me? I still remember the first time that we met. You were so quick to dismiss me. Well, Sherlock, do you remember the second time? That sensual scent of chlorine drifting over our little date. Do you remember that, Sherlock? DO YOU?_

_Let's have a party. I'd invite your friends, but I don't think you really have anyone anymore. You've been a naughty bastard, haven't you? Oh, well, I can't saying dying alone will be fun, but I'll try to make it the bestest!_

_Come play. Tomorrow night. You know where to find me. Just ask your brother._

_Yours,_

_Jim M._

Sherlock closes his eyes**.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_A silence pervades the room as Mycroft turns over the letter._

Hey, Sexy,

Did you miss me? I still remember the first time that we met. You were so quick to dismiss me. Well, Sherlock, do you remember the second time? That sensual scent of chlorine drifting over our little date. Do you remember that, Sherlock? DO YOU?

Let's have a party. I'd invite your friends, but I don't think you really have anyone anymore. You've been a naughty bastard, haven't you? Oh, well, I can't saying dying alone will be fun, but I'll try to make it the bestest!

Come play. Tomorrow night. You know where to find me. Just ask your brother.

Yours,

Jim M.

_Sherlock closes his eyes._

* * *

Planning and planning and planning is what the Holmes brothers do that night at Baker Street, and when Sherlock finally slips into bed, Molly Hooper is already fast asleep.

He doesn't think that he can sleep tonight.

When the sun rises, and morning inevitably comes, Sherlock Holmes will begin to execute a most dangerous plan.

They will pretend. Their last show for his monster brother and Molly will tell Roy Holmes that she is running away. Of course, he will storm in, the possessive bastard who will then disown his girlfriend. They will stage a fight and then, that night, Molly will walk a secret path to the tube station, his Homeless Network safeguarding her every step until she reaches Anthea, and is taken to a safe house. He will tell Molly that he will call her back when he is to face Moriarty, even though it's really a lie (_because never, ever will he let her stand in harm's way_), and then he will meet the consulting criminal as soon as she is safe, and after all this is over...Sherlock will see if he will live or die.

(_He thinks that he's going to die_).

* * *

"You look tired, Shezza."

He doesn't deny it when he sees Billy Wiggins that morning. Instead of answering, he grips the younger man by the shoulders, and insists, "Tell me that you understand the plan, Billy. Tell me _now_."

"Alright, alright, Mistah Holmes!" Wiggins yelps when Sherlock's grip becomes a little bit too hard. The protégé digs through his pockets, and hands him a small pouch. "'Ere, Mistah Holmes. To calm yer nerves. I can tell that yer goin' to be needin' it."

And Sherlock stares and stares at the little bag, because somewhere inside him, he's thirsting for it. He wants to eradicate this uncertainty that he feels, and won't this just be better? Won't it be better if he's calm and confident when he meets Moriarty tonight?

"Fer the record, Shezza, it's enough to keep yeh goin' til tonight, I reckon. Don't worry about your Mouse, Mistah 'Olmes. I'll keep 'er safe, promise, but I think yer gonna be needin' somethin' if yeh wanna beat the Irish man 'cause yeh look like yer about to vomit any second, yeh know? Yer eyes are all scared and yer hands are shakin, Shezza, is all I'm sayin."

And yes, his hands are shaking, but it's not because he's scared (_even though he says_). It's because he wants_ it_, what's in that pouch. He wants it _so_ badly.

Molly wouldn't want it, he's telling himself, but elsewhere, his mind is screaming at him, because what Molly doesn't know can't hurt her, and if his acting is as good as John always says, then even his pathologist won't be able to detect his lapse in sanity tonight.

And then, _yes_, he's got it in his hands. It's hours later, and before he knows where that time went, he's relishing the burn that runs through him as he takes his drugs of choice, and that _lovely, lovely, lovely_ fire keeps him alive, he thinks, and sears alertness into his eyes and mind, and he's so giddy, because he knows right then that everything will turn out alright, because how can it not, when he feels like this?

He _smiles, and smiles, and smiles_, and when the burn begins to fade a little, he takes more and adds it to that wonderful fire's fury, and takes something psychedelic because he's gone stupid, and he doesn't understand until much later, but this, this is floating on clouds, and he likes that very, very much.

Everything will turn out alright, he says.

(_Too bad he's wrong_).

* * *

They're in the morgue, a place that he once used to like, but his use of it as a battleground has now left him with a bitter taste in his mouth every time he sees it.

There is no John today. No Lestrade. _No, no, no_. It is Roy Holmes who sits here now, grinning and grinning and eyes glinting as if he finds everything about this hellish place the funniest thing in the world (_but it's not, Sherlock thinks_).

So when they start the show, and he begins to kiss her like a dying man, his acting turns into reality, because _yes_, he _wants_ her, and _yes_, he wants to _possess_ her, and maybe he gets a little carried away, because in his lust, he forgets about Roy Holmes and their mission, and he lifts her onto a laboratory counter, starts to run his hands over her in a more intimate manner than he's ever practiced before, ever done before, in their acts and in their secret embraces at home. He feels her stiffen, and he panics, and remembers that they're not in private (_but mostly, he panics because he doesn't want Molly to know that he's taken something, and he realizes that he's giving it all away_).

_But I'm still a virgin_, he thinks, and he doesn't know why this thought of all thoughts decides to come to him now, but in this moment, he's really hating Mycroft, because his brother interrupted _everything_ last night, and Sherlock thinks that his _whole_ world is coming to an end (_and it is, but not in the way that he thinks_).

He shivers when Molly takes his face and holds it in her hands, leans in, and breathes on his ear, a single word that he almost doesn't hear.

"Focus."

Something's not right, he thinks and closes his eyes. Something is very, very, _very_ wrong.

And then, there, in his Mind Palace, he sees Molly, striding towards him, furious, and her hand raises into the air and strikes him hard.

_I said, focus_!

His eyes snap open, and he gasps, pulls away from her for a brief moment, and stares at her face, because he knows right there, that he was a fool, and he's succumbing to the drugs so badly that he's lost control. He's staring at her, feverish, mind going up in flames, and then, he sees Roy Holmes, who looks a little put off, a little suspicious, because Sherlock Holmes doesn't seem to be angry or a bastard enough to Molly Hooper today.

They can't lose everything they've worked for now. He can't have such a big mistake, and it would be his fault, too, he knows.

So he says, "I want you," and yes, it fits, with everything real and fake, and Roy Holmes seems to be put at ease, doesn't suspect a thing when Sherlock pulls Molly by the wrist into that same laboratory supply room, and then he's still kissing her (_shouldn't he be doing something else, he wonders, but he forgets it too easily_), and when she pulls away, he doesn't even have time to think before he feels her punch him in the face so hard that he loses his balance and smashes into the wall behind him (_and he's surprised, because he always thought only John could throw punches, thought that this move was reserved for the doctor's escalations in violence_).

And then she's screaming at him, except she's not screaming, really. She's whispering, crying, still sticking to his plan, for _him_, but her whispered words sound so hurt, so angry, that she could be screaming them because screams are all that he hears (_because she trusted him, and he let her down_).

"What did you take this morning, Sherlock?"

And he would tell her, except that he's not sure. Wiggins, he thinks, and remembers that his protégé gave him something light, something relaxing, something that Sherlock could _handle (and he has to laugh at this, stupidly laugh, because it seems even the protégé knew that Sherlock needed to be monitored carefully)_. And then, he remembers, being stupid, and taking something worse after Wiggins was gone, and he wants Molly to punch him again, maybe even John to beat him into a pulp, because how could he be so stupid?

In the end, they wait in that room, until he starts to come back to his senses, because this plan of theirs is too crucial and will take Moriarty off Molly's tracks. So he watches as she unbuttons the top of her blouse, just enough to reveal a bit of the skin that he's not comfortable with his elder brother seeing, and she messes up her hair, and Sherlock realizes that yes, she's sticking to their plan, and she's making his lapse in control seem to be a very suggestive thing, but he feels a pang in his chest when he realizes that she doesn't have to fake the tears (_and it's his fault, too_).

"I'm sorry," he says, after an hour of sitting on the floor, just waiting, and hoping Roy Holmes doesn't lose interest and leave the morgue.

She doesn't reply (_she hasn't forgiven him_).

He closes his eyes, begins to search his Mind Palace for something that will make her laugh (_because he doesn't want to see her cry real tears_). He searches and searches and then, before he can stop himself, he finds himself descending too deep, right back to the Iron Chamber. He has the book. His brother's book. He opens it.

_Sherlock Holmes turns five, but his favourite brother isn't there to celebrate it. He asks everyone why._

_"Mycwoft, pwease," he's begging, all over again, except this time, he doesn't need to learn a magic trick, because Roy's taught him deduction, and about the Mind Palace, so he doesn't need Mycroft's help anymore._

_"Oh, please," Mycroft sneers, "Don't be stupid. You know exactly where Roytriam is, William. It's only been a day since they took him away. Surely you didn't forget it all that quickly."_

_But the five year old doesn't remember. Not one bit. And he doesn't know why, but he thinks it has something to do with his Mind Palace and deleting, and he doesn't know where to look for the answers, because already, he has so many rooms._

_"Mycwoft," he pleads, saying that it's his birthday. "This can be my pwesent, Mycwoft. Pwease."_

_But his elder brother simply snorts, and says, "He'll be back today to collect his belongings before the secret service take him away and jail him for the rest of his life, all thanks to _you_, William. You have a week for apologies before he's gone forever. Now stop bothering me, William. I have a boyfriend, you know, and I'm not going to let him destroy my relationship again with his incessant flirting. He's only seven but all of my girlfriends have fallen for him. I don't understand. Is it his child-like cuteness? I am fourteen. I..." And then Mycroft is gone, muttering furiously about his romance problems._

_But when seven year old Roy Holmes does come home, he is not nice and warm and wonderful like Sherlock remembers him._

_Instead, he screams at the five year old, and Sherlock cowers, and within a week, Redbeard is dead, Sherlock almost drowns, and he has to go to the hospital to have his toes sewn back on, because Roy accidentally drops a saw onto his feet._

_And then, when Roy leaves, Sherlock stuffs all of these memories into his head, in his Mind Palace, and locks them up because Mycroft tells him to, and the only thing he remembers is the lie Mycroft tells Sherlock to get through the trauma of that week._

_"I'm going to tell you something. It's the only thing about our brother that you are going to remember, William. Put everything else in your Mind Palace and never touch it again. This will help you with the pain. Understood?"_

_"Y-yes."_

_"You have a brother."_

_"Yes, Mycwoft."_

_"And he died in a car crash."_

_And five year old Sherlock Holmes does what he is told and forgets everything about Roy Holmes, except that he died in a car crash. And then he cries, because he remembers some brother, who died in a car crash, and Mycroft pats him sympathetically on the back and it is not until much later that Sherlock Holmes remembers more about his brother. _

When Sherlock Holmes leaves his Mind Palace, it is to find Molly staring at him in concern, her warm hands holding his face, and he wonders how long he's been in there, in his Mind Palace, to cause her to forget her anger and look at him with such worry.

"I forgive you," she says, "but are you okay, Sherlock?"

"Yes," he manages, and yes, he's not seeing strange hallucinations anymore from the drugs. He is still high, he knows, and his thinking is still slightly irrational, but it is enough, just enough of sanity to get him through this final act.

"Are you ready to begin?"

* * *

When he bursts through the door of the laboratory supply room, and into the morgue, he puts on the biggest show that he has ever put on in his life.

Molly follows, tears still in her eyes from when she shouted at him, but of course, Roy Holmes thinks differently. So Sherlock makes a show of leaving to freshen up, and pulls Molly aside to whisper menacingly (_and loudly_) into her ear to "stay away from him."

And then, he is gone, if only to double-back and watch Molly perform her part through the little windows of the doors to the morgue. Here, he will wait for her signal (_when she hugs his brother in a gesture of thanks when Roy agrees to help her run away_), and then, of course, with a show of insane anger, he will march back in and break his ties with her.

He sees as she flits around nervously, until she approaches Roy, who pretends to be the gentleman that he's been portraying this whole time, asks her what's concerning her, and Molly begins to tell him, recount painfully the abusive past of her relationship, now the full story that she has been slowly unravelling from the last two staged incidences, and she starts to tell Roy that she can't bear it any longer, that she wants to run away.

And then Roy Holmes is smiling, taking her hand comfortingly, and begins to lead her to a chair, nodding and saying, "Yes. I'll help you. Yes."

At least this is what Sherlock thinks is happening (_they're moving too much for him to be able to read their lips_), and he feels a terrible feeling in his stomach when, instead of leading her to a chair, Roy leads her to the lab supply room, the same room which Sherlock and Molly have been using, and he grits his teeth, hoping that Molly won't agree, not even for this ruse, because he's uneasy with this, that he can't see her.

Moments go by, but Sherlock waits, because he can't be stupid, and ruin everything now, and because he knows that Molly knows the signal, and she must not be done with her acting if she has agreed to follow his brother into a room.

The door opens.

Molly and Roy come out, and he can see that yes, Molly has finished her talk, but she's trembling. She's standing with her back against a lab counter, and Roy is approaching her, and puts his arms on the desk so that Molly is cornered, like a little mouse with nowhere to run. He's talking to her, grinning like he always is, as if he's threatening her, and Molly is nodding, looking uncomfortable, but eyes flitting to the morgue doors where Sherlock is standing hidden.

And then Roy Holmes does something unforgivable, and Sherlock feels rage, uncontrollable rage, and there is something hot, like fire, coursing through him and his mind, and his hands are curling into fists and all he wants to do is _murder, murder, murder_.

His vision is strange. White at the edges but suddenly, he's seeing everything in hyper detail, every tear on Molly's cheeks, every twitch of her pupil as it contracts with fear, and then, Sherlock knows it, cannot even fake it anymore because it's real, so very real. True possessiveness.

His body shakes as the fury takes over him, and he pushes on the doors of the morgue, his only intention to kill.

They don't budge.

They're locked.

He screams.

**END OF PART TWO.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_And then Roy Holmes does something unforgivable, and Sherlock feels rage, uncontrollable rage, and there is something hot, like fire, coursing through him and his mind, and his hands are curling into fists and all he wants to do is _murder, murder, murder_._

_His vision is strange. White at the edges but suddenly, he's seeing everything in hyper detail, every tear on Molly's cheeks, every twitch of her pupil as it contracts with fear, and then, Sherlock knows it, cannot even fake it anymore because it's real, so very real. True possessiveness._

_His body shakes as the fury takes over him, and he pushes on the doors of the morgue, his only intention to kill._

_They don't budge._

_They're locked._

_He screams._

* * *

She thinks that his plan is stupid, but she doesn't tell him, because she doesn't want to hurt his feelings (_and also because he's talking so fast that if she interrupts him, he'll blink and go into a slight stupor as his mind tries to organize itself again, and she knows because she's done it before and he always does the same and really, it's super cute (but Molly doesn't dare tell him that it's cute either because then he'll blink and go into another type of stupor, silly him)_).

When he tells her that he loves her, in that laboratory supply room, her heart only skips two beats (_but she knows that it doesn't really, because Molly is a doctor, and she reads a lot and that's the expression that comes to mind_) and she doesn't even believe him, because really, why should she? She assumes that it's for the case, for Moriarty (_although she wishes that he would just trust her as a friend and not resort to fake declarations of love to get her help, because really, aren't they past that_?), so it takes her four full weeks to realize that it's not fake, because the day after they stage the second act and Moriarty officially announces his return, he's at her flat, hovering, pacing, preaching on what and what not to do for their third act when he suddenly swoops in and takes her mouth, and his kiss is so clumsy (_because it's his first real one—Janine will never count_) and he's so breathless even though it is just a peck on the lips.

And because she never thought that he meant it, she can't help it when she blurts out, "It was real, Sherlock? You meant it?"

And she doesn't think that she's ever seen him so alienated and embarrassed, and he bolts himself inside her bedroom and it takes her four hours to convince him to unlock the door, and even then, he hides his face under the blanket until Toby sits on his head and he sneezes (_she didn't know that cats bothered him_).

"Molly, I..." he says, several times, in different ways, always closing his mouth after he gets to "I." She thinks that it's amusing, because Sherlock's whole world revolves around himself (_or at least it did, until John Watson tamed the beast_) so why is it suddenly so hard for him to tell her what he thinks?

"I care for you deeply," is all that he manages, and he sounds so hurt (_and inexplicably cute at the same time_) that she kisses him on the forehead and says, "I know," (_even though she really didn't_).

The next time that she remembers how stupid she thinks his plan is, it's when John is trying to kill Sherlock, and she throws herself over his body and takes a blow for him because she can't see this, can't see him hurt himself, even if is to keep the Watson family safe. But he thwarts her attempts and rolls over her, and it is just lucky that John stops because he's frozen in shock.

Sherlock looks at her, gasping for breath, and he's got tears in his eyes, and he's pleading, "Keep...keep to the...plan, Molly."

And even though she hates him right there, for making her do this, for letting this happen to him, she keeps quiet, and when Sherlock's eyes are glazing over, and keeping to his villain role, he's muttering, "Coat. Wear my coat, Molly...you're...not decent...stay away...stay away from my girl, John," and he falls unconscious, she turns to the doctor and begs, "Please, John. Help me. Help me take him to the hospital."

"No," John's saying, shaking his head, and he's furious. "He hurt you, Molly. The only place that I'm taking this fucking bastard's body is to a grave."

So she tells him, tells the doctor everything about their ruse, and John's eyes widen, and he's still furious, and he shouts, "God, that bloody git!" and kicks Sherlock three times in the testicles before she stops him (_because she's afraid that John's going to castrate him, and really, that's a disadvantage to her just as much as it is for the silly detective that's lying at her feet, and because she's kind of hoping that the consulting detective will get over his teenager shyness so that they can, well, fuck_).

It takes her forever to make John agree to keep quiet, and he does his part by pretending to hate Sherlock and attempting to get him arrested, and when Greg asks her to testify, she pretends to lie, and tells him that "we were trying to be a bit kinky" and the detective inspector just looks at her, baffled, and then disbelieving, and when he writes something down, the next time he meets her eyes, he is worried at the change in her character (_and she has to run to an empty hospital room to hide the blush that's burning her face_).

When Sherlock chooses the day to break Mrs. Hudson down (_the poor, sweet woman_), she's scared because the landlady babbles and almost gives away hers and John's secret.

"Oh, Sherlock! You have a lady friend!" the not-your-housekeeper exclaims, and she beams at the pathologist. "Molly, dear, oh, it's so good to see you again. Oh, I hope everything is well. Our Sherlock's always stealing my phone to talk to you, but the things that I hear him say to you...and just yesterday, John came over asking for you. He said that you told him to meet—"

So Molly panics, and starts speaking, even though it's not a part of the plan, and Sherlock frowns at her, but she's lucky that he's been in his Mind Palace, and he doesn't notice what Mrs. Hudson slips.

But her guilt for not telling him about John disappears and feelings of betrayal replace it when she overhears Sherlock's conversation with Mycroft and she learns that he plans to keep her in the dark about meeting Moriarty, and she's so angry at his lies that when he leaves to go discuss things with his Homeless Network, she leaves 221B, even though it is dangerous, and she calls John to her flat.

"Bring a gun," she tells the doctor. "Sherlock's meeting Moriarty tonight. I don't know where. You're going to have to tail him."

And John mutters something about "that sodding, bloody dick," and something about "the biggest prat in the bloody universe," but she's not listening, just making sure that the doctor will be there to help Sherlock tonight.

When she makes it back to Baker Street, the consulting detective is acting odd, eyes a little glassed over, and he's smiling too much, but she assumes that it's because he's in his Mind Palace, and maybe something about the thrill of the chase.

It's only later that she learns that he's taken drugs.

Betrayal has a new meaning.

And she's so angry with him that she finds her fists flying of their own accord, and he acts like a wounded puppy for so long, and withdraws into his Mind Palace for so long that she becomes worried, and eventually, he does come back, sweating and pale, and they continue with the final act, just so that they can finish this terrible business, once and for all.

So when Sherlock pretends to storm out of the room, Molly is quick in locking the door, before the consulting detective can come back, because she, too, has a plan, and she glances at Roy and he nods, because yes, the locked doors are the signal, and just as quickly, she darts back to her side of the room, and when she's sure that Sherlock has double-backed, she begins the double-ruse, pretending to be nervous, asking Roy for his help.

"Keep moving," he says, "my little brother can read lips fairly efficiently, I'd imagine. I'd keep your back to him as much as possible."

And she starts talking, pretending to be confessing her fears to him about Sherlock's abusive past, but really, she's not, because when they staged the second act with Roy, he whispered "my little brother is in danger" to her, and she knew right then that Roy Holmes knew that her abusive relationship with Sherlock was a ruse.

But she doesn't trust him because she isn't stupid. She doesn't miss the insane glint to his eyes when he thinks that she isn't looking and she doesn't miss the way that Roy's eyes gleam with devotion whenever Moriarty's name is mentioned.

So she plays this role. She pretends that she believes that Roy is telling the truth when he says that he wants to help his brother. She feeds him lies so that when he goes back to report to Moriarty, he will misinform the consulting criminal, and hopefully, this will give Sherlock an advantage. When it becomes too awkward flitting about the room just so that Sherlock can't notice what they're saying, Roy pulls her into the lab supply room, where it becomes easy to talk.

"Does John know that your abusive relationship is just a trick? Anyone else? Mycroft?" he asks her.

"No," she lies. "No one knows."

"Hmm," he muses. "So when he meets Moriarty tonight, he'll be alone. He cares for them, but no one cares for him. If he dies, no one except you will know what was real."

"Yes," she lies, and swallows nervously because she doesn't like the direction that Roy's thought process is heading.

"Does he really love you?"

"No," she says, but it feels as if she's given herself a blow, because this lie hurts. "He kisses me, but...it's not real. He's pretending. I saw him do it with Janine...well, with someone else. He pretended to propose to her. I think that he's going to try that with me today, too. I saw the same fake ring. He uses it with all of his cases. He...he thinks that this is all a game."

"But he does care for you, doesn't he?" Roy presses, insists, and Molly knows right then, that Moriarty must need Sherlock to care, must need someone to draw Sherlock into their twisted game, and she knows that if it is anyone, it has to be her to die, because she can't bear to see anyone else get hurt (_and John will be there tonight so really, isn't she safe? Won't everything work?_).

"Yes," she admits. "I think he cares. A little...just a little."

It happens then. Roy drops his façade for a split second as he says, "It would make for a bad hostage situation, with you, Molly," and she knows, for sure, that she's made the right choice in not trusting this man.

And maybe he realizes that he's let something horrible slip, because suddenly, his eyes brighten with fake tenderness, oozing kindness, as he reaches up and brushes away a strand of hair from her face (_she feels molested_), and says that he's sorry that Sherlock doesn't love her. And maybe it's because he thinks that this will help him, flirting with her, just like Moriarty did, just like Sherlock used to do. He expects her to fall for him, and she knows that she should pretend to warm up to him, pretend to be flattered and act like the hopeless romantic that Roy thinks she is, so she smiles, tries to look a little in love, but she's so uncomfortable with this that she finds herself making her way to the door, and is back into the morgue where she knows that Sherlock can see her.

But Roy Holmes comes to her, moves towards her and places his hands on either side of the desk, grins and grins and grins when he traps her, and says, "He might not love you, but someone else does."

And she wants to punch him in the face like she did to Sherlock, and get away, but that would ruin her entire pretence, so she nods, says, "I think I do, too...to you, I mean," and looks to the double doors of the morgue, because why is Sherlock not here yet?

"Where is my little brother right now, anyways?" he asks, leaning in closer so that she can feel his breath on her nose.

"I...I don't know," she says, and her eyes are darting to the doors again, "but I think that he'll be back soon. We should...we should probably separate. I-I don't want him to know that...that we're working together. He hates you so...I mean that's the entire reason for secrecy, right? You want to help him but he won't let you?"

"Yeah." His eyes brighten with his fake kindness, fake love for her. He bites his lip, suppressing an artificial grin, so much like Sherlock's behaviour that she's used to, and she feels him wrap his arms around her waist. "We have time, you know," he says. "I'm pretty sure that he's gone."

"Um," she says, and tries to smile, but she's trembling, and her lips are quivering. "I-I have work. I...we can't do this...not right now."

"Oh, come on. Don't worry about work," he says, and before she can stop him, he's pressed his mouth to hers, and his hands have undone the buttons on her blouse, fingers running over her skin, trying to get under her bra, and her mind is screaming, _because where is Sherlock_?

And then she remembers their signal, their stupid signal where she has to embrace Roy Holmes, so she throws her arms around him, because he won't even suspect anything, but Sherlock will.

The doors to the morgue shake, and she hears a cry of rage from the other side.

And then she remembers with horror that she has locked the doors.

But this distraction works because Roy Holmes disentangles himself from her, and then, the doors fling open, and it is Sherlock, face contorted into an expression that is more enraged than ever before. He's acting, she tells herself, and prepares herself for their confrontation, the one that they have planned, but her resolve falters when she sees him rush towards her and his brother, coat flying, scarf flying because he's moving so fast, and Roy Holmes lifts up his hands, as if in a surrender and says, "Do anything to me, little brother, and I'll call the police. I don't think spending a night at the Yard would play to your advantage tonight, would it?"

But Sherlock's eyes reflect madness, and she thinks of all the drugs that he's taken today, wonders if he has any control, but he must have some, because he manages to stop inches from Roy's face, even though he is still livid with his fury.

"I will kill you," he spits at his brother, and then, he grabs her by the wrist, and she's being dragged out of the morgue, with no idea of where they're going, but her blouse is still discarded on the table, and she needs to stop him before they arrive anywhere public.

They don't get far before Sherlock pulls her into a cupboard, some place where the hospital staff store their cleaning supplies, and he shuts the door behind them, a pitch-black darkness enclosing the space, and the last thing that she sees is the wrath in his eyes.

She feels him breathing, roughly, rapidly, right onto her face.

It is so dark.

He says nothing.

A silence stretches out between them, consumes them, and seems to smother them. She feels like she's choking in this air.

He still says nothing.

She feels afraid**.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_They don't get far before Sherlock pulls her into a cupboard, some place where the hospital staff store their cleaning supplies, and he shuts the door behind them, a pitch-black darkness enclosing the space, and the last thing that she sees is the wrath in his eyes._

_She feels him breathing, roughly, rapidly, right onto her face._

_It is so dark._

_He says nothing._

_A silence stretches out between them, consumes them, and seems to smother them. She feels like she's choking in this air._

_He still says nothing._

_She feels afraid._

* * *

When he plummets from the rooftop of St. Bart's, she watches him, but closes her eyes at the last moment (_because what if he doesn't hit the mattress like he's supposed to?)._

But she doesn't hear any sickening sounds, so she finally looks, just as he's darting around the corner, and the grand switch around John (_poor John_) is taking place. She doesn't see him for a long time after that.

Five months later, after his fall, he comes to her.

It's snowing, and so cold, and she's shivering as she steps back into her flat after a night out with colleagues. When she turns around, and finds him there, asleep on the floor (_it's carpeted_), coat used as a substitute blanket, she barely keeps from crying aloud with her surprise. He looks weary, even in slumber, and for some strange reason, he's left on the telly, a documentary on world war aircraft usage creating a dull background chatter. She considers waking him, perhaps coaxing him to at least sleep on the sofa, but then she compares the length of his body with the piece of furniture in question, and realizes why he's chosen the floor instead. She tries to turn off the television but the sudden silence stirs him awake, and he looks around blearily, eyes reflecting a little bit of fear.

"You're safe, Sherlock," she says, and turns back on the telly. The hum is his reassurance that he is not alone. She thinks she understands. The silence is terrifying.

He falls back asleep promptly, mumbling about killing in his delirium, before he quietens again.

In the end, she notes the late hour and goes to bed.

He's still asleep when she tiptoes to the sitting room the next morning. It disturbs her (_because when has he been one for sleeping?_), so she decides to make him his favourite coffee (_and then rouse him, because it's just not healthy, to sleep for so long, she thinks_).

"Tea," his voice suddenly rumbles, but his eyes stay closed, and he still doesn't move from his original position.

"Okay," she says, and puts the kettle on. No coffee, then. Hmm.

Maybe she should be asking him why he's here, and maybe, she should be asking him how he got in, but she thinks that she already knows his answers, so she doesn't question him. Finally, he sits up, makes his way to the bathroom (_how does he even know where it is_?) and when he sits down on her sofa, all she does is push the tea into his hands (_and some biscuits, but he won't take those_), and says, "You could have used the bed."

"It's yours."

"That's alright. You can have it."

"I'll be here a week."

"Okay," she says, even though she's surprised. Won't Mycroft give him any accommodation?

"Hotels are too risky," he tells her, as if reading her mind. "Mycroft's safe houses can be infiltrated."

"How are you going to get around?" she asks, because if he's here, it is for something. Something to bring down Moriarty's network.

"Cab."

"That's risky, too."

"I'm good at blending in."

"Car hire?" she says, but it sounding like she's pleading with him a little (_because she wants him to be safe_). "Then you could drive."

He snorts. "It may come as a surprise to you, Molly, but I can't actually drive. There is a reason that I take cabs."

She doesn't expect this. "Well," she says, "you should learn."

There is a long silence before he admits, "I failed my driving test."

"Did you yell at the examiner?"

"No."

"Did you offend them in any way?"

"No."

"Are you sure that you didn't try to deduce them?"

He sighs with exasperation. "Please, Molly. I do know discretion where there is a need for it. I didn't say a word save for the cursory good morning and good afternoon. Apparently, my control of the vehicle was not...adequate." He swallows, as if this is the hardest thing that he has ever had to say. It probably is, admitting that he's not good at something.

"Well, you can always try again, Sherlock. Sometimes, it takes a few tries."

He grits his teeth. "I failed fifteen times."

"Well, maybe this time, you'll be okay."

"They won't allow me to try again, Molly. I _killed_ someone."

"Oh," she says but really, her thoughts are racing (_because is Sherlock Holmes actually human? He can do things badly? She always thought he was brilliant at everything...except maybe sentiment...and...he killed someone?_).

Once again, they fall into the trap of silence, and because she has to leave for work, she gets up, and says, "I'll sleep on the sofa tonight. Please help yourself with whatever you need, Sherlock."

What he says next, she doesn't expect.

"Share?"

"I-I'm sorry. What?"

"Share," he breathes, looking down at his feet. "Share the bed."

She bites her lip. Looks at him nervously, but they're not meeting each other's eyes.

"Okay," she says, and then, she is gone.

* * *

He's already asleep when she gets back. It's unusual, all this sleeping, but she's glad, because she's not sure if she could do this with him awake.

But it must be a ruse again, because as soon as she slips into bed beside him, he stiffens. She wonders when he became so shy with her (_and when she stopped stuttering in the past five months since his fall_).

"You said to share," she says, "but I don't mind the sofa...if you're not comfortable, I mean."

He makes a non-committal sound in his throat.

"Okay," she says, and turns out the lights.

* * *

For two nights, his body is stiff every time that they're in bed together. The third night is different, because they're cold.

They're shivering, both of them, even though they've got a blanket (_separate ones, because a single blanket would be too intimate, and she can't bear something so false_).

For two hours, they struggle to sleep, but the power has gone off, so there is no heat for them tonight. Finally, it is Sherlock who makes a frustrated sound before she feels his hand overwhelming hers, and then, he's pulling her towards him.

"This is ridiculous," he says, and wraps an arm around her waist. He doubles their blankets, and there is warmth, still a little cold, but so, so, so much better.

By the end of the night, they are sweating.

It is the same night that Sherlock Holmes officially declares her home to be one of his bolt holes. She's not sure what it means, what it will entail, but it seems to be somewhat honorary, so she acquiesces.

When he leaves four days later, she asks him what he accomplished for Moriarty's network.

"I only wanted to see you," he says, flitting in the doorway nervously and then leans in to kiss her cheek.

She doesn't hear from him again. Not until he returns for good.

* * *

The next time that they spend any significant time together alone is when he uses her as a John substitute on one of his cases (_and he says that's she not supposed to be John, but he calls her that several times, so she doesn't really believe him_).

It is fun, but awkward, and he acts a little bit hysterical during the day, shooting her shy smiles and laughing at things that aren't even really that funny, but eventually, the day comes to an end, and he reads her thoughts, because she can't do it again, not with Tom in the picture now.

He smiles sadly, kisses her cheek and leaves. She doesn't see him for a long while after that.

* * *

She learns what bolt holes mean when she comes in one evening to find him sprawled on her bed, pillow over his head.

"Please," he breathes, "allow me to stay."

But her soon-to-be-husband, Tom, is coming over the following morning, so she doesn't really know what to say.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" she asks.

"Space. She's awful."

He continues mumbling things, something about bridesmaids and human error, exploitation and torture, so eventually, she simply says what she always seems to say.

"Okay."

And that is the first step to breaking an engagement, she realizes, when she wakes up to find that her alarm didn't ring (_she was going to kick Sherlock out before her fiancé's arrival_).

Except that her fiancé has already arrived, is staring at the man in her bed, at the man who has his arms wrapped around her waist so conveniently.

"Not a word," Tom says, and throws his ring on to the floor. "I don't want to hear it."

But Molly didn't want this either. She didn't want her perfect life to be ruined now, so she wakes up the consulting detective by the collar of his shirt and hauls him out the door. The next time she sees him, two weeks later, she slaps him across the face three times.

He is meek, and takes it.

* * *

He's not meek now.

Not nervous, not shooting her shy smiles, in this dark cupboard that he's trapped her in. He is deadly, it feels like.

She feels him breathing, roughly, rapidly, right onto her face.

It is so dark.

He says nothing.

A silence stretches out between them, consumes them, and seems to smother them. She feels like she's choking in this air.

He still says nothing.

She feels afraid.

The silence is so oppressive, she thinks, and the darkness is just as ominous.

She waits and waits for him to speak, but he is quiet, and his breathing is not slowing down, not even a little bit. She feels it on her face, so harsh and still so angry, and she is terrified of being terrified of him (_because why is she afraid of Sherlock Holmes?_). He doesn't move. He doesn't touch her. He simply _breathes_.

She opens her mouth, but she can't say a word to him. It's as if something is squeezing her neck, and she gasps suddenly, as this frenzy of fear takes her, and then, she's backing away from him, flailing and panicking, looking for a way out, a path that will take her away from him.

He moves towards her.

She feels his body collide with hers, press against her, and he's got her wrist again, holds its so tightly that she can't even bend it, and all the while, the blackness of the cupboard feasts on her eyes, and she is blind, so, so, so blind. She wonders what his face looks like.

He lets go of her wrist, puts his hands on her waist, and spins her around, and he's against her again, so close that his body is firm against her back, and her stomach is flat against the wall. She feels his breath on her ear, panting and so hot, and suddenly, she remembers her stupid shirt, still discarded on the desk in the morgue, as his hands roam her upper body, and still, and still she can't see him in this darkness. She feels cold.

_No_.

She knows this scene.

But it was pretend then.

She trembles. She thinks that she's going to cry. He takes a step back and relief floods her, only for the dread to return with more terror when she hears a rustling sound as he takes off his coat, his scarf.

"Sherlock," she croaks, her voice thick with fear, and she gasps again, feels as if her throat is being coated with hot wax. Her breath is coming out in spurts. She thinks that she's hyperventilating. He's still not saying a word to her.

And then she feels it, the heaviness of his coat over her shoulders, and he's slipping her arms into it, buttoning it up for her as if she's a child, wrapping the scarf around her neck. She lets out a shuddering breath. He's making her decent.

He takes her wrist again (_she wishes that he would just hold her hand_), and the door's opening, and they're outside again, making their way to Baker Street (_but at least, everything is okay, she thinks, but his face is still angry_).

She's wrong.

They're in the flat, in 221B, but he doesn't stop by the sitting room. Instead, he drags her down the hallway, towards his bedroom. They stop in front of the door.

"Into the room," he says, quietly, menacingly.

_No_.

She knows this scene.

But it was pretend then.

She wants to say something, but he isn't patient. Not anymore.

"Into the room now!" he snarls.

He opens the door, shoves her in, swings it shut, locks it.

Then he leaves**.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_"Into the room," he says, quietly, menacingly._

No_._

_She knows this scene._

_But it was pretend then._

_She wants to say something, but he isn't patient. Not anymore._

_"Into the room now!" he snarls._

_He opens the door, shoves her in, swings it shut, locks it._

_Then he leaves._

* * *

Why did she have to meet him?

_She's in chemistry class, tired of standing, but this experiment has specific procedures, and they're dealing with a dangerous substance, so she ignores her aching legs and stays careful, making sure to not spill a drop. When she reads the next few instructions, she's frustrated._

_2. Note that sulphuric acid is highly corrosive and is known to cause burns upon impact with the skin. This experiment deals with a solution of concentration 1.25 M. This is a very dangerous concentration and protective garments are required. Perform all steps with this substance under the supervision of a professional. _

_3. With your partner and under the eye of the instructor, carefully dilute the concentration to 0.75 M. Do not pick up the sulphuric acid. Instead, pick up the water (after you have measured the proper amount) and pour it into the sulphuric acid slowly to avoid splashes. Use a funnel. Do not hold the flask containing the sulphuric acid as you do this. Do not swirl the flask. Protective eye wear is not sufficient alone. Full mask is recommended. _

_And of course, she is unlucky, because as usual, her lazy professor has left her alone to eat his lunch and she has no partner (because she was sick and is only here during her own lunch period to make up for the missed school work). So she sighs and finally sits down, wondering if she should bother finding the professor, or if she should finish this quickly and leave. _

_So she thanks the non-existent science gods when her professor suddenly enters the room, dragging along a tall, lanky boy with wild, dark curls for hair, and cheekbones that make her jealous, and the boy is muttering things like "unhand me," "this is assault" and "bloody Mycroft." _

_"Hello, Hooper!" her professor greets, ignoring his abuser, and cheerily shoots her a smile. "I've found you another student to be partners with. He was sick, too, so you should get perfectly well along." He chortles, as if the idea of two previously ill beings working together is strangely charming. He turns his attention to the boy. "Now, Sherlock, your brother's not very pleased with your marks. He was a good friend of mine, so I've been pleading your case with the headmaster for a while now, but any more incidents will get you expelled from this university. I let you do your work independently but you've shown a very serious lack of responsibility. Thus, I am making your presence in my class mandatory. Understood?"_

_The boy, Sherlock, scowls, but jerks his head in a cursory nod of agreement. The professor beams and says, "Good, good. Now be the bright lad that you are and be nice to Molly Hooper here. She's the top student of this class, you know, and...oh, don't look so surprised. You can't always be the best. As Mycroft keeps telling me, your marks are absolutely humiliating to him. Need to study more to write those exams, I would think. So keep your condescending thoughts to yourself, lad, and when I come back, I hope to see some good progress."_

_He begins to leave when Molly interrupts, "Professor, the instructions say that we need you observing while we perform the experiment...?"_

_But of course, he's more concerned with his meal like usual, and laughs heartily. "Two of my smartest students can handle it, I'm sure," he says and is gone, eager for his lunch._

_Well, she thinks, and turns to the boy. "Hi."_

_"Greetings," he responds, but he looks completely uninterested. He sighs dramatically and grabs her textbook, scanning over it with too brief a time to have read it, and then holds out his hand expectantly. "Sulphuric acid."_

_"Safety apron?" she inquires because she's already irked that he's used her book without asking. These type of people annoy her. "Mask and gloves, too."_

_"Not necessary," he says, waving her ideas away with his hand, and prompts, "Sulphuric acid."_

_She hands him the water. He frowns when he realizes that it's not what he wants._

_"Top of the class but so incompetent as to the point that you can't distinguish between chemicals in a chemistry course? They're labelled. A little odd. I wouldn't think that you would be so stupid, Molly Hooper. Hair tied back, little make-up, showing a general disregard for the beauty aesthetics that most idiots feel compelled to follow. Clothes quite cheap. Not the usual type for such a prestigious university, are you? Ah, and not a regular drunk either, unlike the majority of our classmates. No intercourse lately, suggesting a penchant for studying, so why is it, Molly Hooper, that you are such a failure?"_

_She grits her teeth. "The instructions specify to leave the sulphuric acid on the table and use the water. You would know that if you could read, but I suppose that you're right in thinking a few of us are incompetent, aren't you?"_

_He looks baffled for a moment, and then his eyes dart to the page of the book. "There's always something," he mutters. _

_"You're not going to apologize?" she asks in disbelief, because never has she met anyone so rude, so distant in her life. When he is about to try dumping the water into the sulphuric acid, she grips the edge of the table to avoid punching him, and snaps, "Use a funnel, please."_

_But of course, he doesn't listen again, and he says, "Not necessary," and waves his hand._

_Except this time, it must have been necessary, because his hand knocks over the flask containing the still undissolved sulphuric acid, which floods over the hands that she has been using to grip the table in her anger and splashes her chest and neck. His face pales when he sees the acid disintegrating her gloves._

_The pain that reaches her is phenomenal and she can't move or think so when she does come back to reality, it is to find that the boy has shoved her under the shower for emergency care and he's frantically removing her clothes and gloves._

_"Don't tell the professor," he's saying. "Please don't tell him that it was me. My brother..."_

_And even though she thinks that he's a terrible person, he seems so desperate and she hates to be the reason that he's expelled (or to be the reason for anyone, really), so she takes a leap of faith and __when the professor comes back to find one of his students half-naked and both of them with burns on their hands, she lies and covers for him, hoping she's right with her conclusion._

_It must be right, because he visits her in the hospital everyday, and soon, she is his only friend (but he doesn't call her that), and they take all their chemistry classes together from that day onwards (he thinks that she should be a pathologist), until he drops out (she hears rumours about drugs)._

_When she doesn't see him for six years, she misses him, and when they meet again in St. Bart's morgue, she realizes that she's loved him all along. _

_What she doesn't know is that he's forgotten her and stored his memories of her in a place called the Iron Chamber._

Why did she have to love him?

It's the question that she asks when he locks her into his bedroom.

She thinks that she hates silence, but that's until he starts making noise, and then, she realizes that she hates noise, too.

It is quiet after he leaves her, but she knows that he's still in the flat, because she never hears the door open nor close. At first, she waits by the door, calls his name while trying to suppress sobs. When he doesn't answer, she breaks down, cries, bangs and bangs and bangs on the door, but he never graces her with his voice. And then, when she's done with crying, so done, she screams at him, shrieks and shrieks and shrieks about how she hates him and how she'll never look at his face like she did before. Not _ever_ again.

But it stays silent.

After she's done with her shouting, she slumps there on the floor, against the terrible barrier that calls itself a door, and stares at the wall for a while, until his poster of the periodic table and its elements feel like they have been burnt into her eyes (_of course, only he would put something so reminiscent of chemistry classes on his wall_). She knows them all, of course, having been forced to memorize them in university, but now her mind pays attention to a particular set of three. Three elements that seemed to have made her life extra difficult.

Rhodium. Ytterium. Holmium.

Roytriam Holmes.

Roy.

She realizes that she hates him, too.

Sherlock begins to play his violin. It is a piece that she doesn't recognize, beginning with soft sadness, slow and languishing, which builds to anguish that swells and fills the room. By the end, she hears his violin crying the notes, and she finds her hands over her ears, trying to block out this melody that she hates because it's his, it's Sherlock's and she hates his noise.

But she doesn't really know what noise is just yet, because if this is noise, the sound that she hears next is something only cataclysmic, because it could end the Earth.

The music stops. She hears his violin drop. And then he screams.

It's not a short shriek. It is a long cry that fills through the cracks of her fingers, pervades the block that she sets up to deafen herself with, and pierces through to sink its blade into the deepest depth of her ear.

He doesn't only scream once.

He screams again, and again, again.

And then she hears the crashing sounds and the ripping sounds and the clashing sounds of all these sounds as he tears apart his flat, breaks every object within his sight and propels his body towards all those items that he can't see so he can destroy them, too.

He's gone mad.

It is silent once more.

So silent.

She's too afraid to move. Her head is leaning against the door of the bedroom but she's scared if she shifts in even the slightest, he'll hear the door creak and come to ruin her, too, just like everything that he's consumed and tossed away like his violin, everything in his flat right now.

But it doesn't matter in the end because he cuts this unendurable quiet with the sounds of his feet as he makes his way to his bedroom, towards her, angry and hating, just like she is.

She freezes when she hears him breathing on the other side of this wooden barrier.

In and out. Inhale and exhale.

He doesn't say anything.

She clenches her fingers, then brings her hands over her mouth, tries to keep from screaming.

He takes a shuddering breath.

"Molly," he says.

She feels the vibrations of his voice rattle through the wooden door, abuse her ears. She shuts her eyes, squeezes them closed, presses her hands even harder to her lips. She can't let it escape. No sound. No sound. That's the way that it has to be.

Why did she have to meet him?

Why did she have to love him?

"Molly," he says again, harsh, and sits down on the floor. He puts his hand on the door, right where her head is leaning, as the door vibrates again with the motion.

She doesn't answer. What is he going to do?

His breathing becomes more ragged and she can hear the tears when he says, "Forgive me."

But no. No. No. She won't forgive him. Not when he ignored her own tears. She called out to him. She pleaded. So she can't. She can't love him anymore (_even though she can't stop loving him either_). He is destructive and she has only realized this too late.

"Please," he begs, and she feels cold. No. No. No.

He tells her how he feels, how he felt, something so uncharacteristic of him. Tells her how he thinks it's his fault that Roy Holmes is the way that he is, that he remembered something that he locked away in his Mind Palace about his brother (_just like he did to Molly, she thinks bitterly_) and he tells her that he's guilty. So guilty. Guilty about what he did to his brother. Guilty about what he did to her, because he got angry, when he saw her wrap her arms around Roy Holmes, and smile and giggle, and he forgot all about their signal (_even though he made it up himself_).

And then, in the most pathetic tones, he tells her that he played the role of the bastard like they planned, but played it longer than he had to so that he could hurt her, because he was jealous. So fucking jealous.

"I think I'm becoming the monster," he whispers, voice filled with horror and terror and madness. "I've played this role too long, Molly. I don't know who I am anymore."

And of course, he doesn't. Of course. Of course. Of course, because what did he expect, really? What did he expect from his stupid plan, only half-thought out, too delusional and driven by pretence to get anywhere? He played the role. He is the role now.

"Forgive me, please, Molly," he says, and she doesn't know what the truth is anymore.

"I will never forgive you!" she shrieks, so furious, so enraged, just like he was, because this is it. She believes it. She believes that he is a monster, and yes, she is taken with this idea, this new role to play. She will be the victim, just like he wanted. "I will never forgive you," she says again, and covers her ears with her hands, because really, she doesn't want to hear it. Not anymore.

She does, anyway, because when has covering one's ears ever helped someone block out words?

"I love you, Molly," he says, the first time that he's ever uttered those exact words. "I do."

"Go away, Sherlock," she says, "and leave me alone."

He pushes his hand under the crack of the door, too big to fit, but the tips of his fingers are visible.

"Please," he says, "please."

She reaches out, reluctantly, brushes the tips of her fingers against his. He slips something else under. A bag. She recognizes what's in it.

"Never again," he says. "Never again."

Drugs. His key to madness.

"Open the door, Sherlock," she says and is weary. So tired.

He's quiet, barely audible as he says, "I can't."

"Open the door," she says again, desperate. She lies. "I'll forgive you."

"You'll follow me. You'll put yourself in danger, Molly. You need to stay. Wait until Mycroft comes. He'll take you to a safe house. I'll call you when it's time to meet Moriarty."

"Stop lying," she hisses. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. I know that you're seeing him tonight. I heard everything."

"I-I wanted to keep you safe. Protect you."

"Friends protect people, Sherlock," she says, and she doesn't know what it is about what she says, but she hears him stir on the other end.

"John..." he mutters. "He said that once."

"And he was right," she says. "Open the door, Sherlock. Please."

"Tell me that you forgive me."

She bites her lip. Shuts her eyes. Lies.

"I forgive you."

He stands up. He's turning the knob. He opens the door a crack. She peers up at him from where she is on the ground.

"I'm sorry," he says, not opening the door further.

"I know."

"Forgive me," he says.

"I have."

He looks at her, and they take in each other's features.

"No," he says.

She wonders if he can see through her lies. She tries to tell him again. Maybe this time, she even believes herself.

"No," he says again. "For this, forgive me."

And it happens again. He shuts the door. Locks it.

Then he leaves.

**END OF PART THREE.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

**Important Note for this chapter: If you don't remember who Carl Powers is, just know that he was the boy who Moriarty drowned in a swimming pool by poisoning his eczema cream. It was the first murder that Sherlock was interested in solving crimes because Carl Power's shoes could never be found.**

* * *

_"No," he says again. "For this, forgive me."_

_And it happens again. He shuts the door. Locks it._

_Then he leaves._

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes arrives at the swimming pool to meet Jim Moriarty that night, he knows that something horrible must have happened in the three hours that he left Molly Hooper in his bedroom, because she's _here_.

Someone has kidnapped her.

A platform has been built in the middle of the water, and she's seated in the center of it, tied up, in a chair, head drooping and eyes unfocused, drugged out of her mind, and he's freaking out, going mad, pulling off his coat, ready to dive into the pool and take her back before the villain arrives and makes things difficult.

Just as he throws his scarf onto the ground and is about to hit the water, he freezes, because there is a red laser point on her forehead, the mark of a weapon that is ready to fire from somewhere above, and it's just like the first time, except last time it was John and this time, it is Molly, and he's trapped, he's so trapped and he's been so stupid with his plan, he realizes, because if only John were here, if only John knew, and then they could have saved Molly together.

"Sherlock," she mumbles, eyes closing, breathing slowed, and he tries to keep from shaking, because he's so sure that Moriarty's overdosed her, so sure that this is a ticking bomb and he won't be able to save her unless everything is done quickly.

And just like last time, Moriarty enters, playing his ringtone, loudly, because of course, just like last time, it is their Final Problem.

_How Deep Is Your Love? _

Bees Gees. Same musical group as "Stayin' Alive_." Of course. _It was always his favourite_. _

"Are you surprised, little brother?" Roy Holmes asks, smiling, grinning, and continues to play his stupid ringtone, the same one that played in the morgue that day that all of the electronics went haywire, that same day that he announced his return as Jim Moriarty. When Sherlock doesn't answer, the brother's smile widens. "Ah, and so you did know."

But of course, Sherlock knew. How could he not?

Not at first, no. He remembers his frustration when he first realized it, in the morgue when his elder brother first introduced himself to Molly, because Moriarty has been taunting Sherlock since the very first time that they met, and Sherlock, he's been stupid, so stupid, stupid, stupid, because if only he had realized it the first time that he heard the name, from the cabbie driver who spoke of Moriarty with such fear. If only! Because if he had, they would not be here today. Sherlock would never have needed to jump off of a roof, cause so much pain to John Watson, to everyone he knows, because if Sherlock had only remembered that he had an elder brother then, it wouldn't have taken him more than five seconds to put it all together.

_"I'm Sherlock's brother. A tad older. Roytriam Reginald Walter Christopher Sheridan Holmes, but uh, just call me Roy. Um, my mum really loved the mathematical and mechanical capabilities of rhodium and ytterium, the, ah, elements of the periodic table. Thought she'd combine the lot and name me into what felt like a bundle of joy. The others would tease me at school. Call me Rhodium Ytterium Holmium."_

Moriarty had been teasing Sherlock all along...with his name.

R-O-Y-T-R-I-A-M rearranged into M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y.

Roy Holmes, who'd always hated his name, had become Jim Moriarty.

"Mummy, why did you give us such odd names?" Roy had asked their mother one day, and four year old Sherlock had looked up with curiosity, because did their mother know the pain of finding the meaning of a name like 'Sherlock' and 'Mycroft' and 'Roytriam?' "William's name is normal, but about Mycroft and I? Why couldn't you have named us something like that? A James? Or a Peter? I quite like the name 'James,' Mummy."

And Mummy had smiled, laughed, ruffled their hair and said, "I like eccentricity," and that had been the end of that.

His brother, Roy Holmes, who had been so good to him, teaching him deduction, teaching him about the Mind Palace when Mycroft wouldn't, and who had been innocent and loving at seven years of age...Sherlock had destroyed him.

_They are at the pool, the two of them, and because they are only four and seven, Mycroft is in charge (but really, he's not, because he wanders away with his girlfriend, and soon, they are left alone)._

_"Mummy said that we need Mycwoft to watches us swim," Sherlock says, and he's nervous, because he doesn't like breaking the rules._

_Roy smiles. "It's okay," he says. "I'll take care of you. And there are plenty of lifeguards. Come on. Let's swim."_

_And so they do, and it's great, because Roy is his favourite brother, and he makes sure that he's with Sherlock, all the time, and four year old Sherlock never worries about drowning, and it's all okay, even if snotty Mycroft isn't there to bother them about regulations and other big words that Sherlock doesn't understand yet._

_They're having so much fun, so maybe it's only logical that there be something to put a damper into their day._

_A boy approaches them, around Roy's age, and Roy, always polite, introduces them._

_But when Roy sticks out his hand for a handshake, the boy, Carl Powers, laughs and laughs and laughs and asks, "What kind of rubbish name is that? Roytriam?" and then, he laughs some more._

_And Roy is irked, so annoyed, so he takes Sherlock with them, and they gather some dirt, and it's even better, because they find some dirt in the garden where someone has disposed of their beans. "This'll show him," Roy tells Sherlock. "It was mean of him to tease me. I can't help my name. Let's put some of this dirt inside that cream that he keeps using. He'll never be able to wash it out."_

_Sherlock is not comfortable with this. Not at all. But it's true. It was mean of that boy to tease his elder brother, so a little joke can't hurt?_

_So when Carl plasters on his eczema cream again, Sherlock and Roy laugh so hard, because what kind of idiot doesn't notice that their medication is full of dirt and beans?_

_It is harmless, really, their prank, but apparently, it's not, because they didn't know that earlier that day, a man had disposed of a can of beans that had been festering with botulin toxin, and they didn't know that Carl Powers had been diagnosed with human immunodeficiency virus months earlier, so when he falls asleep for three hours, nobody knows that the mean boy is dying until it is too late._

_They're giggling, really, when the bully wakes up from his nap, eyes drooping and stiff-bodied, and Roy and Sherlock think that it's hilariously funny when Carl Powers falls off his bench and falls head first into the pool's waters._

_"What a bumbling moron," Roy snickers, but then he pales, because Carl Powers drowns._

_There are no lifeguards around. There are in the midst of a shift switch and Sherlock, poor four year old Sherlock, is freaking out, sniffing and crying and whimpering._

_"Calm down," Roy mutters, but he's scared out of his mind, too. The two brothers look at each other, think about the beans, and because they're child prodigies, they realize that they themselves are the murderers (because Mummy taught them about bacteria, and about botulin toxin and how fast it can act, administered through the skin until it paralyzes the body)._

_"They'll knows!" Sherlock shrieks, voice higher than usual. "They'll knows, Woy, they'll knows. We...we have to run. We..."_

_And four year old Sherlock bursts into tears because he's so frightened and he doesn't want to go to jail. Not yet. Not ever._

_"It's alright," Roy says, and he is trying to stay calm, patting Sherlock on the shoulder comfortingly like Mummy always does. "If we act normal, they won't..."_

_But Roy swallows, can't speak anymore, because he doesn't even know what to say._

_And then Sherlock remembers, remembers then what he told Roy a few months ago, about how Mycroft knew that Sherlock had wet the bed before._

"Woy, Mycwoft knowed that I peed on the bed again in my sweep. It was his magic mind twick. He saided that it was 'cause of the way I putted on my shoes!"

_So Sherlock scurries over to the body, grabs Carl Powers and his shoes, and hides them under a bench, because if they take the shoes, no one can know, right, how it happened?_

_"That's not how deduction works, Will," Roy whispers, gently, taking him by the arm and pulling him closer to him. "I taught you. You know that's not going to help."_

_But Sherlock is trying so desperately to make the situation better, and he's thinking so, so, so hard, so hard that he's breathing rapidly, hyperventilating._

_And his brother, his good brother, takes Sherlock by the shoulders and tells him to focus._

_"Remember how I taught you about the Mind Palace? You need to do something for me, Will, please. Lock everything away. Forget everything. You need to calm down. Put this death somewhere where you won't be able to find it for a long time."_

_So Sherlock does what he is told, and it is this day that he builds the Iron Chamber. It is this day where he forgets._

_When the police arrive, Sherlock doesn't remember what has happened. He only sees a body, and he is eager to help, so he deduces, impresses them with this reasoning at four years of age, while Roy is frantically trying to stop him, stop him from incriminating Roy for a crime that was a complete accident, and he's telling Sherlock to stop, stop being such a Sir Boast-A-Lot, and stop deducing, but of course, of course Sherlock doesn't stop (because he doesn't know that they're the murderers, since he locked this memory in his Mind Palace) until he's said everything that he sees, and then when he does stop, he finds his favourite brother in handcuffs, being taken away._

_And then they learn that they aren't the only prodigies in the room, because Carl Powers was, too, and he was due to unveil a method to combat HIV that very month, so when the police take Roy, they hand him over to the secret service, because everyone knows that the Holmes family is comprised of geniuses, and they reason that this is a conspiracy, that Roy Holmes, at seven years of age, has aligned himself with terrorists (and of course, this is bullshit, because really, Carl Powers is the son of a powerful woman, and this twisted sort of reasoning is the perfect way to incarcerate a child for revenge)._

_And the Holmes family tries everything, anything to save their little boy, but whatever happens in the week that they take Roy in, it is terrible enough that Roy is forced to confess (even though it is all lies)._

_And after one week, Roy is allowed to come back to gather his things, to say good-bye to his family before he is confined for twenty-five years, but when he does come back, he has already met his other half, in the shadows of his cell, in the throes of his madness, when he creates his new identity of Jim Moriarty and vows to destroy Sherlock Holmes, because how could his own brother, his own little brother, hand him over to the police (and really, a part of Roy knows that it's his own fault for making Sherlock forget the crime, by pushing it into his Mind Palace, but most of the parts of Roy just long and thirst and burn for revenge)._

_That week, Roy is so insane, so aligned with his other half, Jim Moriarty, that he tries to kill his little brother, tries to drown him, cut off his toes, murder Redbeard._

_And everyone, everyone is so disturbed, and Mycroft tells Sherlock to forget it all._

"I'm going to tell you something. It's the only thing about our brother that you are going to remember, William. Put everything else in your Mind Palace and never touch it again. This will help you with the pain. Understood?"

"Y-yes."

"You have a brother."

"Yes, Mycwoft."

"And he died in a car crash."

And five year old Sherlock Holmes does what he is told and forgets everything about Roy Holmes, except that he died in a car crash. And then he cries, because he remembers some brother, who died in a car crash, and Mycroft pats him sympathetically on the back and it is not until much later that Sherlock Holmes remembers more about his brother.

_Forget about his brother, so Sherlock does, and when years later, when he is a little bit older, newspapers begin to whisper about a dead kid, Carl Powers, Sherlock hears about the shoes that were never found and goes to the police, tries to get them interested, but no one takes him seriously (and of course, they don't, because Sherlock has already solved this murder, but he just doesn't remember it)._

_And then, years later, Roy Holmes is released, after he has built his empire in prison, and then, he begins to plan. Plan to destroy Sherlock Holmes._

"Tell me, what finally gave it away?" Roy asks, amused, utterly, utterly, utterly amused.

"The name," Sherlock says, talking quickly, trying to be normal (_even though he's going mad, because Molly is there, and she's dying_). "And then when the electronics went off in the morgue. Your phone played that song. Same musical group as the last one. Our Final Problem, is it not?"

"Really, little brother, that's all?"

Sherlock grits his teeth. "Hospital. When you came to visit me after John attacked me. You talked about pets. Sentimentality. Changeability. Just like Moriarty did the first time that we met at this swimming pool."

_"Go away," Sherlock spits, and he hates that his voice sounds so small, just like before, just like when they were children and he would laugh at Sherlock._

_"Still on about that dog, are you? Your pet? My, little brother, I never thought you were the sentimental type. Didn't you give up on it all like our elder brother? Mycroft's gotten very good at it, I hear, forgetting sentiment. Disowned you a few days back, didn't he?"_

_Roy smiles and leans in, breathing, "And John Watson, I think that you'd like to hear about him, too. See, after he had his fists bandaged—he bashed your head in, didn't he, little brother?—he called the police. Greg Lestrade is here, trying to get your bitch to talk. To press charges." He sits back and Sherlock's trying his best to keep under control, even though he's burning with fury (because Molly is her name). "Turns out she's pretty loyal, although I do have to wonder why after the way you've been treating her." He sighs, overdramatically, and it irks Sherlock, because that's the way the consulting detective is supposed to sigh when he's bored, not Roy Holmes. "Although, you never know. People are changeable, after all, little brother. Never know when she'll talk. Who knows? You might find yourself in prison for twenty-five years. It happened to me, after all, and we're alike, aren't we? The same sweet voices, the same fake smiles, and she comes crawling to us, to you and I. You do remember, don't you? I had everything that you had. Maybe it's your turn to have it the other way around. Prison isn't pleasant, but it might do you some good. Everybody needs to be thrown off their high horse once in a while."_

_But Sherlock knows that they aren't alike (because Moriarty said it, too, and the consulting detective proved him wrong, and will do it again), so he can't help but snarl his next line. "What do you want?"_

"You're confused, aren't you?" Roy breathes, and he's speaking so softly. "You're wondering who that man was who shot himself on the rooftop with you. Who pretended to be Moriarty."

"Richard Brook. Actor. You threatened his family, he committed suicide to save them. Loose ends tied. His family assumed that he'd had a villainous streak all along."

Roy nods. "You're right, of course. You see, I really meant to kill you that time. On the roof. But Mrs. Hudson. She's such a bright typist. Such a good story teller. Not that she knew what she was doing, writing the script for us, our little story. I told her that it was for a play. About two boys, William and Roy. She never figured it out. I wanted you to feel betrayal. How funny it would have been to have your entire life ruined at the hands of your housekeeper and her illegitimate child, Kitty Riley. You know, your landlady convinced me that a fake death would be so much more dramatic. That's why I allowed you to live, Sherlock. Because she wrote such a wonderful story."

And yes, yes, it makes so much sense, and Sherlock is relieved, so relieved to know that Mrs. Hudson isn't in cahoots with Moriarty, that her slip of tongue was not a slip of allegiance, and he'd laugh, he would, but he can't find it in himself. Not yet.

_"Now, Sherlock, my herbal soothers! _I did tell you, but did you listen_? Of course not_."

"Your landlady's so funny, you know," Roy says, quietly. "I almost killed her. She says so much. Gave away the fact that my people have been watching you. The married couple with the cameras. Oh, don't look so surprised, little brother. How else do you think that I've known what you've been up to in the past five years since my release from prison? How else do you think that I knew that everything between you and Molly was a ruse? You know, you could have saved yourself, but in the end, you saved Mrs. Hudson because you never listen to her, even though everything that she says is so important. Well, good thing that you didn't listen, or otherwise, you'd be talking to her corpse."

And dread fills Sherlock's stomach as he remembers how stupid he's been, because why did he never listen to Mrs. Hudson, sweet, sweet, wonderful Mrs. Hudson?

_"I was just coming in to get my herbal soothers, Sherlock. Where have you put them? Oh, Sherlock, it's just my hip. Oh, it's been hurting more than usual and I haven't talked to your brother, dear. I did exactly like I promised you. Not a word. But really, Sherlock, you need to stop stealing them. _I do have a typing job, you know_, dear, and sitting down is awfully hard when my hip is just driving me up the wall, oh. Even Mrs. Turner's noticed that my hip is worse than usual, and yesterday...oh, but Sherlock, dear, you're like my son, so I wish you wouldn't take things, and...well, so is John, although maybe John's a bit more of a son-in-law, if you know what I mean? _Sort of like the married ones that live next door. They're photographers, did you know that, Sherlock? So many cameras. They showed me their pictures, and oh, they were so beautiful. I didn't realize that you'd let them take pictures of you, Sherlock, but..."

"It's alright," Roy says. "You're allowed to feel stupid. You always were."

And Sherlock is searching, searching in his Mind Palace, trying to find a solution, trying to find a way out of this. "Mycroft," he says desperately. "Mycroft knows what you are. He saw the tapes. He saw that night that you went mad. When you became Moriarty. Whatever you do today won't hide the truth, even if you kill me."

_When they are in the sitting room, Mycroft begins, "I have been watching the tapes of our dear brother's time spent in jail, and it would seem that he met James Moriarty on his very first night in the cell. They made quite the friendship. A lot of...maniacal laughter, if I might say so."_

_"Twenty-five years ago," Sherlock mutters._

_"Thirty. Our brother was released five years ago, Sherlock, although I was only informed of it a few months ago when he contacted Mummy. That is to say if we don't count the brief week that he was allowed back to collect his things for the military base after he was arrested at the age of seven. I believe in that same week, he tried to cut off your toes, murdered, ah, helped Redbeard on his way to meet...a higher being, and attempted to drown you in the garden's swimming pool. Very Carl Powers, wouldn't you say? Nonetheless, he picked up a quite a bit of Moriarty's habits in a rather short span of time."_

"I didn't go mad, Sherlock." Roy laughs. "And Mycroft needn't worry. You're not going to die tonight."

And the air, it is so heavy then, because Sherlock just knows, just knows what's going to be said next.

"But Molly might," Roy says, carefully, taking a step forward. "So, little brother, let's play a game, okay? Let's see if you can find the solution to our Final Problem."

_How Deep Is Your Love?_


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_"I didn't go mad, Sherlock." Roy laughs. "And Mycroft needn't worry. You're not going to die tonight."_

_And the air, it is so heavy then, because Sherlock just knows, just knows what's going to be said next._

_"But Molly might," Roy says, carefully, taking a step forward. "So, little brother, let's play a game, okay? Let's see if you can find the solution to our Final Problem."_

How Deep Is Your Love?

* * *

Roy Holmes allows him to see her, touch her one last time, because it will be his last time, says his elder brother, even if Molly lives.

"You've got five minutes," Roy sings, and walks out of the room.

As soon as his elder brother is gone, Sherlock has flung off his suit jacket and is in the water, has swum to the little platform where she is, and is there, cradling her head in his hands, looking at her desperately (_so, so, so desperately), _is calling her name, crying, and it's only the water dripping from his head down his body that disguises the tears. He unties her, and together, they wade back until they're on the edge of the pool, and then, they're out of the water, sitting on the tiles, soaking wet. She slumps against him, shivering.

"Molly," he says. "Molly. Look at me, Molly."

Her eyes are closed and her breathing is shallow, slowed. When she looks at him, she slowly reaches out to cup his cheek.

"It's okay," she says. "It's okay."

But it's not, of course. She doesn't know what she's saying, not when she's been drugged to the point of overdose. His grip on her tightens.

"It's not okay," he says, trembling, and he feels feverish. "Not this time."

"Don't be afraid, Sherlock," she whispers, eyes flickering shut again, blinking for far too long. "Don't worry."

He lets out a bitter laugh, before he can stop himself. "He's drugged you. You don't know what you're saying."

She shakes her head. "I drugged myself," she pants, "with what you left me."

And then he's staring at her in disbelief. Why? Why would she do that?

"I was angry," she says quietly, "and I was stupid."

And he cries, because god, he's the stupid one, really. And how stupid he's been! How utterly stupid! He needed John. He needed everyone. But he tried to leave them behind. Left them behind and succeeded, and now everything, everything, everything has gone wrong.

"Forgive me," he begs. He kisses her temple. Kisses her cheek. Kisses her jaw. He wants to kiss her lips but he can't, because doing so would be agreeing to let her go, and that's something that he can't do. "Forgive me."

She hasn't, and he doesn't think that she ever will, but she leans closer, brushes her lips over his ear, and says, "John is here. I...told him. He's known...since he attacked you. He...it's okay. You're going...to be...okay."

And _yes_, then he sees it. Sees that the red laser point that was previously on her forehead is gone, and that _yes_, somewhere, in the past ten minutes, somehow, John Watson has done it, silently taken down Moriarty's...Roy's snipers.

So he breaks down, sobs, kisses her so fondly on the forehead, because she is so much smarter than him, and he doesn't know how he could have done anything without her.

"Time's up, Sherlock," Roy's voice rings out, and echoes loudly when his brother walks back into the room. "Although, you can have another five minutes, if you don't want to talk to this doctor here."

_No_.

_No_, because something has gone wrong again, and when Sherlock turns around, John Watson is standing there, a hostile expression on his face, and he's strapped into a jacket, loaded with explosives, and oh god, it's the same thing all over again, just like before, and the red laser light is on Molly's forehead again, and some more are dancing across Sherlock's chest and so many, _so, so, so many_ are glittering off of John's jacket.

"Sorry, Molly," Roy says, and grins, "but I think that you forgot that I was watching Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson, the dear, does love to talk, doesn't she?" He laughs, and then, puts on a falsetto as he mimics the landlady, "_Our Sherlock's always stealing my phone to talk to you, but the things that I hear him say to you...and just yesterday, John came over asking for you_!"

There is a long silence then, and Roy spins on his ankle, starts to walk back out of the room, calling, "Five minutes, little brother. I'm even giving you privacy. Split it however you want."

When he's gone, John speaks up, squeezing his eyes shut as if he's in pain, opens his mouth as if he's about to say something, but shuts it just as quickly, so Sherlock speaks up instead.

"I'm sorry, John," he says, because he's at a loss, truly he is, and there's nothing that he can even do. "This is my fault."

The blogger opens his eyes, huffs, shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, Sherlock. You bloody, sodding git. You utter, stupid, prick. You, Sherlock, you, prat of the bloody, fucking universe, you dick, you wanker, you...goddamn it, consulting detective, don't. Don't say that you're fucking sorry, Sherlock, because yes, this is your bloody fault, and you are not going to wheedle your way out of responsibility this time, alright? Yes, you were stupid, but god save me, Sherlock, if you try to apologize for your bloody mistake again, I, _god save me, please_, will bloody trigger the stupid bomb on this jacket just so I can bloody take you with me, you bloody git."

"John..."

"Nope." The doctor shakes his head. "Just shut up, Sherlock, right now, because when this bloody mess is over..._god_, you know, just enjoy my mercy right now, alright? Because next time, I'm going to throttle you." He huffs again, squares his jaw, and then adds, "Sorry, Molly, for the language."

Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what to say, because he didn't expect that, not one bit, so all he can say is, "There won't be a next time, John."

And John Watson gives a frustrated cry, paces around for a bit, before he turns and points to his best friend. "Yes. Yes, there will be, Sherlock, because I've got a family, you dick. I've got a wife to whom I lied to today and said that I was going to the bloody market this late to grab some bloody milk. I said that I'd be back within three hours, after I checked up on you, you goddamned man-child. Three hours. It's been two. I need to get back. And, in case you've forgotten, I've got a daughter, who expects me to be there for her tomorrow. Your goddaughter, by the way, the one that you still have yet to see, so don't even say that there won't be a next time, because who I am bloody kidding, of course, there's going to be a bloody next time, and we're going to get out of it then, too, alright?"

And Sherlock Holmes is touched, he is, so maybe that's what has him confessing, "I was wrong. I should have told you. I should have trusted you."

"Yes," John says, nodding, "God, yes, you should have, Sherlock, but it's too late for that now. See, this is why Molly didn't tell you that I knew. You would've stormed off and bodged everything up on purpose just so that your bloody plan could go the way that you wanted it. And it was a bloody stupid plan, Sherlock, and don't you ever forget that."

"How deep is you love, little brother?" Roy asks, because he's back, and of course, he's playing the ringtone, because the Holmes family has always had a penchant for drama, the dramatics, and have just as ever been impervious to normality, so even if he's Moriarty, there never really is an exception.

And then Roy Holmes explains, explains their Final Problem, and it is so terrible, so terrible, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do.

Sherlock Holmes won't die, Roy explains. No. He will live, if only to choose between John Watson and Molly Hooper, because he must kill one of them, drown them like Carl Powers drowned, squeeze the life out of them with his own hands. And then, Roy will hand the evidence over to the police, and Sherlock will go to jail, for twenty-five years (_and longer, if Roy can have his way, and he often does_).

"So are you going to drown your best friend tonight, little brother?" Roy asks. "That way, Molly can live, and she will, with me, for the rest of her life in _marital bliss_, and you'll never be able to touch her. You'll never be able to see her. And no one will find me or her. Not even our brother, Mycroft, would be able to manage it. No. Not even him. And don't worry. I'll send postcards. I'll send you pictures. I'll make your existence miserable." He sneers. "Or maybe, you can spare Molly the pain with living with me, and kill her instead. And then John will live, but I'll put him in chains for the rest of his life. He'll never see his family. But he'll work for me, always for me, and I'll make him kill innocent people, so many people, until he kills himself out of guilt."

But Sherlock won't do it, can't, so he finds himself on his knees, begging, crying, pleading with him, his brother, the one that used to be the best brother, to stop it.

"Forgive me, please," he says, and he tells him, tells his elder brother that he remembers everything, knows that it was so many stupid, little things that happened that led to this, and asks, asks for forgiveness and mercy and love, because love it seems is what all the brothers crave but are incapable of giving each other.

"NO!" Roy's screaming, shaking his head. "No, no, no! Not now! Not after all of this years. I will burn you. I won't be satisfied until then."

But no, please no, Sherlock is crying. "Roy, please, please, Roy," he hears himself saying, sounds, feels like he's four again. "Please, Roy, please. You...were the best brother. My best brother, please."

And Roy's face is twisting, and maybe, maybe, Sherlock sees a twinge of guilt somewhere, but whatever it is, it can't be seen for long.

All the lights go out.

It is silent, the red laser points of the guns aimed at them rest, with the slightest of wavers, uneasy, but no one shoots, because no one knows what's going on, and they, the assassins, need to be careful, careful not to blow up John and the entire recreational complex, and careful, careful, not to shoot their master, Moriarty.

The silence is deafening, until the noise takes its place.

And then, bullets, bullets, bullets, and their casings, and bodies, bodies, bodies, everywhere.

"All of your snipers are down." Mycroft's voice. "Kneel and put your hands up in the air."

The lights turn back on.

"This is it," Roy whispers, and he has a gun, is pointing it at John. "We're all going to go."

_One..._

_Two..._

_Three..._

Three seconds of quiet where no one speaks, but no one dares move either.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Roytriam," Mycroft's voice can be heard saying, calmly. "You are disturbed. We will get the professional help that you need. Put the gun down. Let us...be a family again. With Mummy and Daddy and the three of us..."

"No, Mycroft. No."

"Roytriam..."

And Roy's hand is moving, and John is shaking, everyone is shaking, except Molly.

Because of course, Molly Hooper never was stupid, and she always knew, always, that Roy Holmes would have known about John Watson, so when Mrs. Hudson had let their secret slip, they had changed their plan, so easily, and of course no one had suspected a thing, because like John had said, no one had told Sherlock, and Molly, when she'd seen the opportunity, had taken the drugs, just enough to convince Roy and everybody else that she was weak and out of it, so that when she finally pulls out the gun that she has been hiding all this time, no one anticipates it, no one except for John.

"_DO NOT SHOOT_!" Mycroft is screaming. "_DO NOT SHOOT MY BROTHER_!"

But it's too late, too late.

Because she's done it already, and Roytriam Holmes is falling to the ground, dead, with a hole in his forehead.

And then Mycroft Holmes is rushing from his hiding spot, running to his younger brother's body, and Sherlock Holmes is falling, flailing, muttering, mumbling, crying, something about the best brother, his best brother, and then, they're all there.

Three Holmes brothers.

Two alive, mourning, mourning, mourning over their brother's body, their corrupted, dead brother.

The other brother.

**THE END.**


End file.
